POEMS. 


JOHN    R.    RIDGE 


p  IT  17  BR  SIT  7] 


SAN     FRAX  Cisco: 

HENRY      PAYOT      A:       COMPANY,      PUBLISHERS. 
1868. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

Mrs.  JOHN  R.  RIDGE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
District  of  California. 


F-nWARD  BOStyjI  &  CO.,  PRINTERS, 


UFIVBRSITT 


Pre  fac  e. 


t^f^i/^ 


Most  of  the  [)oems  in  this  Httle  volume  are  the 
productions  of  boyhoocKj  a  very,  few  of  them  were 
written  after  the  author  had  reached  the  age  of 
twenty.  Like  other  men  of  his  temperament,  Mr. 
Ridge  lost  in  the  excitement  of  political  life  his 
youthful  ambition  for  literary  fame  ;  consequently 
many  of  his  latest  and  best  poems  have  been  lost. 
Some  that  are  embodied  here,  however,  have  elicited 
high  praise  from  the  Pacific  and  Eastern  press.  The 
severe  critic  may  think  that  it  had  been  better  taste, 
perhaps,  to  have  omitted  some  which  have  here 
been  preserved — and  he  may  be  correct  ;  but,  they 
who  have  treasured  the  worn-out  shoe  and  useless, 
threadbare  garment  of  one  who  has  gone  to  return 
no  more,  will  not  be  harsh  in  their  judgment  of  our 
taste. 

The  propriety  of  prefacing  this  book   with  a  bio- 


4  Poems. 

graphical  sketch  of  the  author  has  been  suggested 
to  us.  Such  a  sketch  must  necessarily  be  short.  To 
go  into  the  details  of  a  life  fraught  with  many  stir- 
ring incidents,  would  require  time ;  and,  as  we  have 
not  the  requisite  time  at  our  command,  we  propose 
to  give  Mr.  Ridge's  own  brief  account  of  his  parent- 
age, and  that  dark  misfortune  of  his  childhood 
which  cast  a  shadow  over  his  whole  life,  as  we  find 
it  in  a  letter  written  by  him  to  a  friend  in  1849 — 
only  a  few  months  before  he  came  to  California. 
As  his  career  on  this  coast,  in  connection  with 
political  and  literar)'  journalism,  is  familiar  to  all 
readers,  we  will  add  nothing  to  this  letter. 

"  I  was  born  in  the  Cherokee  Nation,  East  of  the  Mississippi 
River,  on  the  19th  of  March,  1827.  My  earliest  recollections 
arc  of  such  things  as  are  pleasing  to  childhood,  the  fondness  of  a 
kind  father,  and  smiles  of  an  affectionate  mother.  My  father, 
the  late  John  Ridge,  as  you  know,  was  one  of  the  Chiefs  of  his 
tribe,  and  son  of  the  warrior  and  orator  distinguished  in  Cherokee 
Councils  and  battles,  who  was  known  amongst  the  whites  as 
Major  Ridge,  and  amongst  his  own  people  as  K.a-nun-ta-cla-ge. 
My  father  grew  up  till  he  was  some  twelve  or  fifteen  years  of  age, 
as  any  untutored  Indian,  and  he  used  well  to  remember  the  time 
when  his  greatest  delight  was  to  strip  himself  of  his  Indian  cos- 
tume, and  with  aboriginal  cane-gig  in  hand,  while  away  the  long 
summer  days  in  wading  up  and  down  creeks  in  search  of  craw- 
fish. 

"  At  the  age  which  I  have  mentioned  above,  a  missionary  sta- 
tion sprang  into  existence,  and  Major  Ridge  sent  his  son  John, 


Preface.  5 

who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  to  school  at  this  station, 
placing  him  under  the  instruction  of  a  venerable  Missionary 
named  Gambol.  Here  he  learned  rapidly,  and  in  the  course  of  a 
year  acquired  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  white  man's  language 
to  speak  it  quite  fluently. 

"  Major  Ridge  had  now  become  fully  impressed  with  the  im- 
portance of  civilization.  He  had  built  him  a  log-cabin,  in  imita- 
tion of  the  border-whites,  and  opened  him  a  farm.  The  Mis- 
sionary, Gambol,  told  him  of  an  institution  built  up  in  a  distant 
land  expressly  for  the  education  of  Indian  youths  (Cornwall,  Con- 
necticut), and  here  he  concluded  to  send  his  son.  After  hearing 
some  stern  advice  from  his  father,  with  respect  to  the  manner  in 
which  he  should  conduct  himself  amongst  the  *  pale-faces,'  he 
departed  for  the  '  Cornwall  School '  in  charge  of  a  friendly  Mis- 
sionary. He  remained  there  until  his  education  was  completed. 
During  his  attendance  at  this  institution,  he  fell  in  love  with  a 
young  white  girl  of  the  place,  daughter  of  Mr.  Northrup.  His 
love  was  reciprocated.  He  returned  home  to  his  father,  gained 
his  consent,  though  with  much  difficulty  (for  the  old  Major 
wished  him  to  marry  a  chief's  daughter  amongst  his  own  people), 
went  back  again  to  Cornwall,  and  shortly  brought  his  "  pale- 
faced  "  bride  to  the  wild  country  of  the  Cherokees.  In  due 
course  of  time,  I,  John  Rollin,  came  into  the  world.  I  was 
called  by  my  grandfather  '  Chees-quat-a-law-ny,'  which,  inter- 
preted, means  *  Yellow  Bird.'  Thus  you  have  a  knowledge  of 
my  parentage  and  how  it  happened  that  I  am  an  Indian. 

"Things  had  now  changed  with  the  Cherokees.  They  had  a 
written  Constitution  and  laws.  They  had  legislative  halls,  houses 
and  farms,  courts  and  juries.  The  general  mass,  it  is  true,  were 
ignorant,  but  happy  under  the  administration  of  a  few  simple,  just, 
and  wholesome  laws.  Major  Ridge  had  become  wealthy  by  trad- 
ing with  the  whites  and  by  prudent  management.  He  had  built 
him  an  elegant  house  on  the  banks  of  the  '  Oos-te-nar-ly  River,' 
on    which   now  stands    the  thriving    town   of   Rome,   Georgia 


()  Poems. 

Many  a  time  in  my  buoyant  boyhood  have  I  strayed  along  its 
summer-shaded  shores,  and  glided  in  the  light  canoe  over  its 
swiftly-rolling  bosom,  and  beneath  its  over-hanging  willows.  Alas 
for  the  beautiful  scene !     The  Indian's  form  haunts  it  no  more ! 

*♦  My  father's  residence  was  a  few  miles  east  of  the  *  Oos-te- 
nar-ly.  I  remember  it  well.  A  large  two-storied  house,  on  a 
high  hill,  crowned  with  a  tine  grove  of  oak  and  hickor)-,  a  large, 
clear  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  an  extensive  farm  stretch- 
ing away  down  into  the  valley,  with  a  fine  orchard  on  the  left. 
On  another  hill  some  two  hundred  yards  distant,  stood  the  school- 
house,  built  at  my  father's  expense,  for  the  use  of  a  Missionary, 
Miss  Sophia  Sawyer,  who  made  her  home  with  our  family  and 
taught  my  father's  children  and  all  who  chose  to  come  for  her 
instruction.  I  went  to  this  school  until  I  was  ten  years  of  age — 
which  was  in  1837.  Then  another  change  had  come  over  the 
Cherokee  Nation.  A  demon-spell  had  fallen  upon  it.  The 
white  man  had  become  covetous  of  the  soil.  The  unhappy  In- 
dian was  driven  from  his  house — not  one,  but  thousands — and  the 
white  man's  ploughshare  turned  up  the  acres  which  he  had  called 
his  own.  Wherever  the  Indian  built  his  cabin,  and  planted  his 
corn,  there  was  the  spot  which  the  white  man  craved.  Convicted 
on  suspicion,  they  were  sentenced  to  death  by  laws  whose  authority 
they  could  not  acknowledge,  and  hanged  on  the  white  man's  gal- 
lows. Oppression  became  intolerable,  and  forced  by  extreme 
necessity,  they  at  last  gave  up  their  homes,  yielded  their  beloved 
country  to  the  rapacity  of  the  Georgians,  and  wended  their  way 
in  silence  and  in  sorrow  to  the  forests  of  the  far  west.  In  1837, 
my  father  moved  his  family  to  his  new  home.  He  built  his 
houses  and  opened  his  farm  ;  gave  encouragement  to  the  rising 
neighborhood,  and  fed  many  a  hungry  and  naked  Indian  whom 
oppression  had  prostrated  to  the  dust.  A  second  time  he  built  a 
tch(K)l-hou»e,  and  Miss  Sawyer  again  instructed  his  own  children 
and  the  children  of  his  neighbors.  Two  years  rolled  away  in 
quietude,  but    the    Spring  of  '39   brought  in    a   terrible  train   of 


Preface.  .       7 

events.  Parties  had  arisen  in  the  Nation.  The  removal  West 
had  fomented  discontents  of  the  darkest  and  deadliest  nature. 
The  ignorant  Indians,  unable  to  vent  their  rage  on  the  whites, 
turned  their  wrath  towards  their  own  chiefs,  and  chose  to  hold 
them  responsible  for  what  had  happened.  John  Ross  made  use 
of  these  prejudices  to  establish  his  own  pov/er.  He  held  a  secret 
council  and  plotted  the  death  of  my  father  and  grandfather,  and 
Boudinot,  and  others,  who  were  friendly  to  the  interests  of  these 
men.  John  Ridge  was  at  this  time  the  most  powerful  man  in 
the  Nation,  and  it  was  necessary  for  Ross,  in  order  to  realize  his 
ambitious  scheme  for  ruling  the  whole  Nation,  not  only  to  put  the 
Ridges  out  of  the  way,  but  those  who  most  prominently  support- 
ed them,  lest  they  might  cause  trouble  afterwards.  These  bloody 
deeds  were  perpetrated  under  circumstances  of  peculiar  aggravation. 
On  the  morning  of  the  22d  of  June,  1839,  about  day-break,  our 
family  was  aroused  from  sleep  by  a  violent  noise.  The  doors 
were  broken  down,  and  the  house  was  full  of  armed  men.  I  saw 
my  father  in  the  hands  of  assassins.  He  endeavored  to  speak  to 
them,  but  they  shouted  and  drowned  his  voice,  for  they  were 
instructed  not  to  listen  to  him  for  a  moment,  for  fear  they  would 
be  persuaded  not  to  kill  him.  They  dragged  him  into  the  yard, 
and  prepared  to  murder  him.  Two  men  held  him  by  the  arms, 
and  others  by  the  body,  while  another  stabbed  him  deliberately 
with  a  dirk  twenty-nine  times.  My  mother  rushed  out  to  the 
door,  but  they  pushed  her  back  with  their  guns  into  the  house, 
and  prevented  her  egress  until  their  act  was  finished,  when  they 
left  the  place  quietly.  My  father  fell  to  the  earth,  but  did  not 
immediately  expire.  My  mother  ran  out  to  him.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  and  tried  to  speak,  but  the  blood  flowed 
into  his  mouth  and  prevented  him.  In  a  few  moments  more  he 
died,  without  speaking  that  last  word  which  he  wished  to  say. 
Then  succeeded  a  scene  of  agony  the  sight  of  which  might  make 
one  regret  that  the  human  race  had  ever  been  created.  It  has 
darkened  my  mind  with  an  eternal  shadow.      In  a  room  prepared 


8  Poems. 

for  the  purpose,  lay  pale  in  death  the  man  whose  voice  had  been 
listened  to  with  awe  and  adiniration  in  the  councils  of  his  Nation, 
and  whose  fame  had  passed  to  the  remotest  of  the  United  States, 
the  blood  oozing  through  his  winding  sheet,  and  falling  drop  by 
drop  on  the  floor.  By  his  side  sat  my  mother,  with  hands  clasped, 
and  in  speechless  agony — she  who  had  given  him  her  heart  in 
the  days  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  left  the  home  of  her  parents, 
and  followed  the  husband  of  her  choice  to  a  wild  and  distant 
land.  And  bending  over  him  was  his  own  afflicted  mother,  with 
her  long,  white  hair  flung  loose  over  her  shoulders  and  bosom, 
crying  to  the  Great  Spirit  to  sustain  her  in  that  dreadful  hour. 
And  in  addition  to  all  these,  the  wife,  the  mother  and  the  little 
children,  who  scarcely  knew  their  loss,  were  the  dark  faces  of 
those  who  had  been  the  murdered  man's  friends,  and,  possibly, 
some  who  had  been  privy  to  the  assassination,  who  had  come  to 
smile  over  the  scene. 

"  There  was  yet  another  blow  to  be  dealt.  Major  Ridge  had 
started  on  a  journey  the  day  before  to  Van  Buren,  a  town  on  the 
Arkansas  River,  in  the  State  of  Arkansas.  He  was  traveling 
down  what  was  called  the  Line  Road,  in  "ihe  direction  of  Evans- 
villc,  A  runner  was  sent  with  all  possible  speed  to  inform  him 
of  what  had  happened.  The  runner  returned  with  the  news 
that  Major  Ridge  himself  was  killed.  It  is  useless  to  lengthen 
description.     It  would  fall  short,  far  short  of  the  theme. 

"  These  events  happened  when  I  was  twelve  years  old.  Great 
excitement  existed  in  the  Nation,  and  my  mother  thinking  her 
children  unsafe  in  the  country  of  their  father's  murderers,  and 
unwilling  to  remain  longer  where  all  that  she  saw  reminded  her 
of  her  dreadful  bereavement,  removed  to  the  State  of  Arkansas, 
and  settled  in  the  town  of  Fayettville.  In  that  place  I  went  to 
8ch(K}l  till  I  W.IS  fourteen  years  of  age,  when  my  mother  sent  me 
to  New  England  to  finish  my  education.  There  it  was  that  I 
became  acquainted  with  you,  and  you  know  all  about  my  history 
during  my  attendance  at  the  Great  Barrington  School  as  well  as  I 


Pi'e/ace.  9 

do  myself.  Owing  to  the  rigor  of  the  climate  my  health  failed 
me  about  the  time  I  was  ready  to  enter  college,  and  I  returned  to 
my  mother  in  Arkansas.  Here  I  read  Latin  and  Greek,  and 
pursued  my  studies  with  the  Rev.  Cephas  Washbourne  (who  had 
formerly  been  a  Missionary  in  the  Cherokee  Nation)  till  the  sum- 
mer of  1845,  when  the  difficulties  which  had  existed  in  the  Nation 
ever  since  my  father's  death,  more  or  less,  had  drawn  to  a  crisis." 

[Here  follows  a  history  of  Cherokee  affairs,  embracing  the  years  1845  and 
'46,  and  Mr.  Ridge's  connection  therewith,  which  we  think  proper  to  omit.] 

"  Thus  have  I  briefly  and  hurriedly  complied  with  your  request, 
and  given  you  a  sketch  of  my  life.  I  shall  not  return  to  the 
Nation  now  until  circumstances  are  materially  changed.  I  shall 
cast  my  fortunes  for  some  years  with  the  whites.  I  am  twent>'- 
three  years  old,  married,  and  have  an  infant  daughter.  I  will 
still  devote  my  life  to  my  people,  though  not  amongst  them,  and 
before  I  die,  I  hope  to  see  the  Cherokee  Nation,  in  conjunction 
with  the  Choctaws,  admitted  into  the  Confederacy  of  the  United 
States," 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 


Mount  Shasta       .  •      ^3 

The  Atlantic  Cable  17 

Faith    .  .  .21 

Humboldt  River        ......  23 

To  A  Young  Lady         .......      26 

To  A  Star  Seen  at  Twilight  ...  27 

Remembrance  of  a  Summer's  Night  -3° 

To  Lizzie  ........  35 

The   Forgiven   Dead      .......      38 

To  A  Mocking  Bird  Singing  in  a  Tree   .  •  39 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scotts        ......     42 

A   Cherokee  Love  Song     .  .  .  ■  •  43 

Dedication   for  a-n   Album   ......      45 

The  Rainy  Season   in  California     ....  46 

The  Harp  of  Broken  Strings       .  •      5° 

October   Hills  .  .  53 

The  Maid  of  the  Mountains  -54 

On   Yuba  City  .  .  .  56 

Of   Her   I   Love     ...  -59 

To  the  Be.4.utiful     .......  60 

A  Night  Scene     ....  .62 

Ode  to  the  Xation.al   Flag   ....  64 


I J  Poems. 

Page. 

lu  C 66 

Rosa   Dunn      ......  68 

False,  but  Beautiful           ......  69 

To  L cN   Receiving   Her    Portrait  70 

The  Stolen   White  Girl    ......  72 

A   June  Morning     .......  74 

The  Sabbath    Bells     .......  76 

Poem 78 

Erinna         .........  83 

Lines  on  a  Humming  Bird  Seen  .^t  a  L.adv's  Window  86 
California  .                                                                                 .87 

My  Lost  Love          ...  93 

Poem  ..........  95 

The  "Singing  Spirit"     .....  100 

Do  I   Love  Thee.'        .......  103 

A  Scene  along  the  Rio  de  las  Plumas  105 

The  Still  Small  Voice       ......  109 

Eyes  hi 

Poem  .......                               .  1 14 

The  Arkansaw  Root  Doctor  .128 

The  Maiden's  Fortune  135 

Random  Thoughts  or  Her  137 


^i^rm.^ 


POEMS 


MOUNT    SHASTA. 


Behold  the  dread  ]Mt.  Shasta,  where  it  stands 

Imperial  midst  the  lesser  heights,  and,  like 

Some  mighty  unimpassioned  mind,  companionless 

And  cold.  The  storms  of  Heaven  may  beat  in  wrath 

Against  it,  but  it  stands  in  unpolluted 

Grandeur  still ;  and  from  the  rolling  mists  upheaves 

Its  tower  of  pride  e'en  purer  than  before. 

The  wintry  showers  and  white-winged  tempests  leave 

Their  frozen  tributes  on  its  brow,  and  it 

Doth  make  of  them  an  everlasting  crown. 

Thus  doth  it,  day  by  day  and  age  by  age, 

Defy  each  stroke  of  time  :  still  rising  highest 

Into  Heaven  I 


14  Poems. 

Aspiring  to  the  eagle's  cloudless  height, 

No  human  foot  has  stained  its  snowy  side  ; 

No  human  breath  has  dimmed  the  icy  mirror  which 

It  holds  unto  the  moon  and  stars  and  sov'reign  sun. 

We  may  not  grow  familiar  with  the  secrets 

Of  its  hoar)-  top,  whereon  the  Genius 

Of  that  mountain  builds  his  glorious  throne  ! 

Far  lifted  in  the  boundless  blue,  he  doth 

Encircle,  with  his  gaze  supreme,  the  broad 

Dominions  of  the  West,  which  lie  beneath 

His  feet,  in  pictures  of  sublime  repose 

No  artist  ever  drew.      He  sees  the  tall 

Gigantic  hills  arise  in  silentness 

And  peace,  and  in  the  long  review  of  distance 

Range  themselves  in  order  grand.     He  sees  the 

sunlight 
Play  upon  the  golden  streams  which   through  the 

\-alleys 
Glide.     He  hears  the  music  of  the  great  and  solemn 

sea. 
And  overlooks  the  huge  old  western  wall 
To  view  the  birth-place  of  undying  Melody  ! 

Itself  all  light,  save  when  some  loftiest  cloud 
Doth  for  a  while  embrace  its  cold  forbidding 


Mount  Shasta.  15 

Form,  that  monarch  mountain  casts  its  mighty 

Shadow  down  upon  the  crownless  peaks  below, 

That,  like  inferior  minds  to  some  great 

Spirit,  stand  in  strong  contrasted  littleness  ! 

All  through  the  long  and  Summer}-  months  of  our 

IVIost  tranquil  year,  it  points  its  icy  shaft 

On  high,  to  catch  the  dazzling  beams  that  fall 

In  showers  of  splendor  round  that  cr}-stal  cone, 

And  roll  in  floods  of  far  magnificence 

Away  from  that  lone,  vast  Reflector  in 

The  dome  of  Heaven. 

Still  watchful  of  the  fertile 

Vale  and  undulating  plains  below,  the  grass 

Grows  greener  in  its  shade,  and  sweeter  bloom 

The  flowers.     Strong  purifier  !    From  its  snowy 

Side  the  breezes  cool  are  wafted  to  the  *  *  peaceful 

Homes  of  men,"  who  shelter  at  its  feet,  and  love 

To  gaze  upon  its  honored  form,  aye  standing 

There  the  guarantee  of  health  and  happiness. 

Well  might  it  win  communities  so  blest 

To  loftier  feelings  and  to  nobler  thoughts— 

The  great  material  symbol  of  eternal 

Things  !     And  well  I  ween,  in  after  years,  how 

In  the  middle  of  his  furrowed  track  the  plowman 

In  some  sultr}'  hour  will  pause,  and  wiping 


'  '  >^    0^   THE      ''^^"^ 

aVBRSITTS 


1 6  Poems. 

From  his  brow  the  dusty  sweat,  with  reverence 
Gaze  upon  that  hoar}-  peak.     The  herdsman 
Oft  will  rein  his  charger  in  the  plain,  and  drink 
Into  his  inmost  soul  the  calm  sublimity  ; 
And  little  childen,  plapng  on  the  green,  shall 
Cease  their  sport,  and,  turning  to  that  mountain 
Old,  shall  of  their  mother  ask  :   "  Who  made  it  ? '  ' 
And  she  shall  answer, — ^"  God  !  " 

And  well  this  Golden  State  shall  thrive,  if  like 
Its  own  Mt  Shasta,  Sovereign  Law  shall  lift 
Itself  in  purer  atmosphere — so  high 
That  human  feeling,  human  passion  at  its  base 
Shall  lie  subdued  ;  e'en  pit)''s  tears  shall  on 
Its  summit  freeze ;  to  warm  it  e'en  the  sunlight 
Of  deep  sympathy  shall  fail  : 
Its  pure  administration  shall  be  like 
The  snow  immaculate  upon  that  mountain's  brow  ! 


The  Atlantic  Cable.  17 


THE   ATLANTIC    CABLE. 

Let  Earth  be  glad  !  for  that  great  work  is  done, 
Which  makes,  at  last,  the  Old  and  New  World  one  ! 
Let  all  mankind  rejoice  !  for  time  nor  space 
Shall  check  the  progress  of  the  human  race  I 
Though  Nature  heaved  the  Continents  apart, 
She  cast  in  one  great  mould  the  human  heart  ; 
She  framed  on  one  great  plan  the  human  mind, 
And  gave  man  speech  to  link  him  to  his  kind  ; 
So  that,  though  plains  and  mountains  intervene, 
Or  oceans,  broad  and  stormy,  roll  between. 
If  there  but  be  a  courier  for  the  thought — 
Swift-winged  or  slow — the  land  and  seas  are  nought, 
And  man  is  nearer  to  his  brother  brought. 

First,  ere  the  dawn  of  letters  was,  or  burst 
The  light  of  science  on  the  world,  men,  nurs't 
In  distant  solitudes  apart,  did  send 
Their  skin-clad  heralds  forth  to  thread  the  woods. 
Scale  mountain-peaks,  or  swim  the  sudden  floods, 
And  bear  their  messages  of  peace  or  war. 
2* 


1 8  Poems. 

Next,  beasts  were  tamed  to  drai^  the  rolling  car, 

Or  speed  the  mounted  rider  on  his  track  ; 

And  then  came,  too,  the  vessels,  oar-propelled. 

Which  fled  the  ocean,  as  the  clouds  grew  black, 

And  safe  near  shore  their  prudent  courses  held. 

Next  came  the  winged  ships,  which,  brave  and  free. 

Did  skim  the  bosom  of  the  bounding  sea, 

And  dared  the  storms  and  darkness  in  their  flight, 

Yet  drifted  far  before  the  winds  and  night, 

Or  lay  within  the  dead  calm's  grasp  of  might. 

Then,  sea-divided  nations  nearer  came, 

Stood  face  to  face,  spake  each  the  other's  name, 

In  friendship  grew,  and  learned  the  truth  sublime, 

That  Man  is  Man  in  everj'  age  and  clime  ! 

They  nearer  were  by  months  and  years — but  space 

Must  still  be  shortened  in  Improvement's  race, 

And  steam  came  next  to  wake  the  world  from  sleep, 

And  launch  her  black-plumed  warriors  of  the  deep  ; 

The  which,  in  calm  or  storm,  rode  onward  still. 

And  braved  the  raging  elements  at  will. 

Then  distance,  which  from  calms'  and  storms'  delays 

Grew  into  months,  was  shortened  into  days, 

And  Science'  self  declared  her  wildest  dream 

Reached  not  beyond  this  miracle  of  steam  ! 

But  steam  hath  not  the  lightning's  wondrous  power. 


The  Atlantic  Cable.  19 

Though,  Titan-like,  mid  Science'  sons  it  tower 

And  wrestle  with  the  ocean  in  his  wrath, 

And  sweep  the  wild  waves  foaming  from  its  path. 

A  mightier  monarch  is  that  subtler  thing. 

Which  gives  to  human  thought  a  thought-swift  wing ; 

Which  speaks  in  thunder  like  a  God, 

Or  humbly  stoops  to  kiss  the  lifted  rod  ; 

Ascends  to  Night's  dim,  solitar}-  throne, 

And  clothes  it  with  a  splendor  not  its  own— 

A  ghastly  grandeur  and  a  ghostly  sheen, 

Through  which  the  pale  stars  tremble  as  they're  seen  ; 

Descends  to  fire  the  far  horizon's  rim. 

And  paints  Mount  Etnas  in  the  cloudland  grim  ; 

Or,  proud  to  own  fair  Science'  rightful  sway, 

Low  bends  along  th'  electric  wire  to  play, 

And,  helping  out  the  ever-wondrous  plan, 

Becomes,  in  sooth,  an  errand-boy  for  man  ! 

This  Power  it  was,  which,  not  content  with  aught 

As  yet  achieved  by  human  will  or  thought, 

Disdained  the  slow  account  of  months  or  days, 

In  navigation  of  the  ocean  ways. 

And  days  would  shorten  into  hours,  and  these 

To  minutes,  in  the  face  of  sounding  seas. 

If  Thought  might  not  be  borne  upon  the  foam 


20  Poems. 

Of  furrowing  keel,  with  speed  that  Thought  should 

roam, 
It  then  should  walk,  like  light,  the  ocean's  bed, 
And  laugh  to  scorn  the  winds  and  waves  o'er  head  ! 
Beneath  the  reach  of  storm  or  wreck,  down  where 
The  skeletons  of  men  and  navies  are, 
Its  silent  steps  should  be ;  while  o'er  its  path 
The  monsters  of  the  deep,  in  sport  or  wrath, 
The  waters  lashed,  till  like  a  pot  should  boil 
The  sea,  and  fierce  Arion  seize  the  upcast  spoil. 

America  !  to  thee  belongs  the  praise 

Of  this  great  crowning  deed  of  modern  days. 

Twas  Franklin  called  the  wonder  from  on  high  ; 

'T  was  Morse  who  bade  it  on  man's  errands  fly — 

'T  was  he  foretold  its  pathway  'neath  the  sea  : 

A  daring  Field  fulfilled  the  prophecy  ! 

'T  was  fitting  that  a  great,  free  land  like  this, 

Should  give  the  lightning's  voice  to  Liberty  ; 

Should  wing  the  heralds  of  Earth's  happiness, 

And  sing,  beneath  the  ever-sounding  sea. 

The  fair,  the  bright  millenial  days  to  be. 

Now  may,  ere  long,  the  sword  be  sheathed  to  rust, 
The  helmet  hid  in  undistinguished  dust  ; 


The  Atlantic  Cable.  2 1 

The  thund'rous  chariot  pause  in  mid  career, 

Its  crimsoned  wheels  no  more  through  blood  to  steer; 

The  red-hoofed  steed  from  fields  of  death  be  led, 

Or  turned  to  pasture  where  the  armies  bled  ; 

For  Nation  unto  Nation  soon  shall  be 

Together  brought  in  knitted  unity, 

And  man  be  bound  to  man  by  that  strong  chain, 

Which,  linking  land  to  land,  and  main  to  main, 

Shall  vibrate  to  the  voice  of  Peace,  and  be 

A  throbbing  heartstring  of  Humanity  ! 


FA  ITH. 

Fair  Queen  of  this  ]\Iay  Day  !  the  tributes  I  bring 

Are  not  from  the  regions  where  Cherubim  sing. 

Or  glory  refulgent  encircles  the  throne 

Of  Him,  the  Almighty,  th'  Eternal,  the  One. 

Though  there  is  the  home  of  my  ultimate  rest, 

A  Paradise  endless,  surpassingly  blest, 

Yet  Earth  was  my  birth-place,  my  mission  is  here, 

And  dear  is  that  birth-place,  that  mission  is  dear. 


2  2  Poems. 

T  is  true  I  was  born  in  the  wisdom  of  God, 
And  though  of  the  earth  not  akin  to  the  sod, 
T  is  mine  to  give  comfort  when  sadness  doth  reign, 
And  draw  from  the  bosom  the  sting  of  its  pain  ; 
For  hope  to  the  hopeless  I  whispering  send, 
And  show  the  despondent  a  heavenly  friend. 
Oh  sad  was  the  world  ere  my  spirit  began, 
To  give  forth  its  balm  and  its  fragrance  to  man, 
For  wild  was  the  trouble  and  darksome  the  grief 
Which  had  in  kind  Heaven  no  trust  or  belief 
T  is  Faith  in  the  heart  that  giveth  to  life 
The  peace  of  the  home-hearth,  the  joys  of  the  wife, 
T  is  Faith  that  entrances  with  gladness  the  lover, 
Who  trusts  in  his  idol,  knows  nothing  above  her, 
And  sees  her  grow  beautiful,  ever  and  ever. 
'Tis  Faith  in  our  fellows,  their  goodness  and  truth 
That  makes  the  chief  glory  of  childhood  and  youth  ; 
And  cursed  is  the  soul  with  a  withering  ban 
That  has  lived  till  it  trusteth  no  longer  in  i\Ian. 
The  gifts  that  I  bring  thee,  so  still  must  I  say. 
Are  not  the  far  gems  that  bediamond  the  way 
Where  star-crowned  immortals  beatified  stray. 
They  're  relics  I've  gathered  along  the  dim  shore 
Of  life  and  of  time — these  are  all — nothing  more. 
This  fragment  that's  rusted,  't  is  all  that  remains 


Humboldt  River.  23 

Of  the  heroes'  and  martyrs'  rude  fetters  and  chains  ; 
This  ring,  't  was  the  sign,  on  a  hand  that  is  dust, 
Of  love  that  was  sacred,  and  holiest  trust ; 
These  pearls  \kitk  so  glisten  like  cr)'stalline  spheres, 
They  are  the  congealment  of  penitent  tears. 
Oh  skeptic,  sore-hearted,  accept  them  I  pray, 
For  healing  is  in  them,  and  blessing  for  aye. 


HUMBOLDT    RIVERA 

The  River  of  Death,  as  it  rolls 

With  a  sound  like  the  wailing  of  souls  ! 

And  guarding  their  dust,  may  be  seen 

The  ghosts  of  the  dead  by  the  green 

Billowy  heaps  on  the  shore — 

Dim  shapes,  as  they  crouch  by  the  graves. 

And  wail  with  the  rush  of  the  waves 

On  seeking  the  desert  before  I 

Guarding  their  dust  for  the  morn 

*  For  three  hundred  miles  its  banks  are  one  continuous  burying  ground. 
Emigrants  to  California  died  on  its  shores  by  thousands. 


24  Poems. 

Which  shall  see  us,  new-born 

Arise  from  the  womb  of  the  earth — 

That,  through  rain  or  through  dearth, 

Through  calm  or  through  storm, 

Through  seasons  and  times,  no  part  may  be  lost. 

By  the  ruthless  winds  tost, 

Of  the  mortal  which  shall  be  immortal  of  form. 

No  leaf  that  may  bud 

By  that  dark  sullen  flood  ; 

No  flower  that  may  bloom 

With  its  tomb-like  perfume, 

In  that  region  infectious  of  gloom  ; 

No  subtleized  breath 

That  may  ripple  that  River  of  Death, 

Or,  vapor}',  float  in  the  desolate  air. 

But  is  watched  with  a  vigilant,  miserly  care. 

Lest  it  steal  from  the  dust  of  the  dead  that  are  there  ; 

For  the  elements  aye  are  in  league. 

With  a  patience  unknowing  fatigue. 

To  scatter  mortality's  mould. 

And  sweep  from  the  graves  what  they  hold  ! 

I  would  not,  I  ween,  be  the  wight 
To  roam  by  that  river  at  night, 


Humboldt  River.  2  5 

When  the  souls  are  abroad  in  the  glooms  ; 
Enough  that  the  day-time  is  weird 
With  the  mystical  sights  that  are  feared 
]\Iid  the  silence  of  moonlighted  tombs  ; 
Weird  shores  with  their  alkaline  white — 
That  loom  in  the  glare  of  the  light ; 
Weird  bones  as  they  bleach  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  beast  from  his  labors  is  done  ; 
Weird  frost-work  of  poisonous  dews 
On  shrub  and  on  herb,  which  effuse 
The  death  they  have  drank  to  the  core  ; 
Weird  columns  upborne  from  the  floor 
Of  the  white-crusted  deserts  which  boil 
With  the  whirlwind's  hot,  blasting  turmoil  ! 
As  ghost-like  he  glides  on  his  way. 
Each  ghastly,  worn  pilgrim  looks  gray 
With  the  dust  the  envenomed  winds  flail ; 
And  the  beast  he  bestrides  is  as  pale 
As  the  steed  of  the  vision  of  John, 
With  him,  the  Destroyer,  thereon. 

Dark  river,  foul  river,  't  is  well 

That  into  the  jaws  of  thy  Hell — 

The  open-mouthed  desert  * — should  fall 

*  Sink  of  the  Humboldt. 


26  Poems. 

Thy  waves  that  so  haunt  and  appal. 
T  is  fit  that  thou  seek  the  profound 
Of  all-hiding  Night  underground  ; 
Like  the  river  which  nine  times  around 
The  realm  of  grim  Erebus  wound, 
To  roll  in  that  region  of  dread — 
A  Stygian  stream  of  the  Dead  ! 


TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

Deep  in  thy  heart  is  slumbering  Love, 
Oh  maiden  of  the  sweet  blue  eye  ! 

And  with  him  on  his  crimson  couch 
All  tenderest  of  Graces  lie. 

His  breathings  through  thy  parted  lips 
Are  balmy  as  the  breeze  that  blows 

From  islands  of  the  Indian  seas, 

And  with  their  light  and  bloom  he  glows. 

I  hear  him  whispering  of  the  dreams 
He  dreams  !  he  whispers  soft  and  low, 


To  a  Young  Lady.  27 

Like  murmurings  on  some  pearly  strand, 
Where  rippling  waters  come  and  go. 

He  breathed  no  name,  but  there  is  one 

Whom  he  and  all  the  gods  adore ; 
The  bright  ideal  one,  the  strong,  the  brave, 

Who  yet  shall  come  from  Heaven's  own  shore. 

Oh  hearts  of  roses !  lily's  lives  ! 

To  wed  with  him  were  bliss  divine. 
Oh  happy  husbands,  happy  wives. 

If  souls  were  all  like  his  and  thine  ! 


TO  A   STAR  SEEN  AT  TWILIGHT 

Hail  solitary  star ! 

That  shinest  from  thy  far  blue  height, 

And  overlookest  Earth 

And  Heaven,  companionless  in  light ! 

The  rays  around  thy  brow 

Are  an  eternal  wreath  for  thee  ; 

Yet  thou'rt  not  proud,  like  man. 


28  Poems. 

Though  thy  broad  mirror  is  the  sea, 
And  thy  calm  home  eternity ! 

Shine  on,  night-bosomed  star  ! 

And  through  its  realms  thy  soul's  eye  dart. 

And  count  each  age  of  light, 

For  their  eternal  wheel  thou  art. 

Thou  dost  roll  into  the  past  days. 

Years,  and  ages  too, 

And  naught  thy  giant  progress  stays. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon 

Thy  speaking  face,  thy  calm,  fair  brow. 

And  feel  my  spirit  dark 

And  deep,  grow  bright  and  pure  as  thou. 

Like  thee  it  stands  alone  ; 

Like  thee  its  native  home  is  night. 

But  there  the  likeness  ends, — 

It  beams  not  with  thy  steady  light. 

Its  upward  path  is  high, 

But  not  so  high  as  thine — thou'rt  far 

Above  the  reach  of  clouds. 

Of  storms,  of  wreck,  oh  lofty  star  ! 

I  would  all  men  might  look 

Upon  thy  pure  sublimity. 


To  a  Star  seen  at  Twilight.  29 

And  in  their  bosoms  drink 

Thy  lovj^ess  and  Hght  hke  me  ; 

For  who  in  all  the  world 

Could  gaze  upon  thee  thus,  and  feel 

Aught  in  his  nature  base, 

Or  mean,  or  low,  around  him  steal ! 

Shine  on  companionless 

As  now  thou  seem'st.     Thou  art  the  throne 

Of  thy  own  spirit,  star  ! 

And  mighty  things  must  be  alone. 

Alone  the  ocean  heaves, 

Or  calms  his  bosom  into  sleep  ; 

Alone  each  mountain  stands 

Upon  its  basis  broad  and  deep ; 

Alone  through  heaven  the  comets  sweep, 

Those  burning  worlds  which  God  has  thrown 

Upon  the  universe  in  wrath. 

As  if  he  hated  them — their  path 

No  stars,  no  suns  may  follow,  7ione — 

'T  is  great,  't  is  great  to  be  alone  ! 


30  Poems. 


REMEMBRANCE    OF  A    SUMMER'S 
NIGHT, 

The  evening's  air  breathed  softly  o'er 
A  silent  spot  in  midst  of  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  bounded  by  a  flow'r}-  shore, 
A  cool,  fresh  lakelet  spread  its  polished^sheen  ; 

Alone,  with  book  of  ancient  lore 
I  patient  sat  and  mused  on  what  hath  been. 

The  shadows  of  the  mossy  pine, 
That  o'er  the  quiet  depths  in  silence  fell, 

Seemed  like  some  spirit's  wing  divine. 
Which,  hovering  there,  shed  round  a  holy  spell  ; 

And,  while  I  read  each  storied  line, 
It  seemed  within  my  heart  of  hearts  to  dwell. 

With  noiseless  steps  the  moments  came, 
And  still  unheard  they  went ;  the  softened  light 

In  mellow  rays  fell  o'er  each  name 
Renowned,  a  heavenly  tribute  rich  and  bright  ; 

Still  o'er  the  records  grand  of  fame 
I  looked,  nor  marked  the  soft  approach  of  Night. 


Remembrance  of  a  Summer's  Night.  3 1 

She  came  unheralded  by  sound, 
And  stole  upon  me  like  a  dream ;  the  leaves 

Grew  dim,  and  when  I  gazed  around, 
Behold  !  the  mystic  curtain  that  she  weaves 

To  hide  from  day  her  silent  bound, 
Hung  far  away  to  where  Old  Ocean  heaves. 

Where  wing'd  imagination  roams 
On  high  the  moon  in  saint-like  beauty  rose, 

And  in  their  pure  etherial  domes 
The  kingly  stars  sat  throned  in  grand  repose — 

As  calm  those  worlds  as  might  the  homes 
Of  angels  be,  where  love  immortal  grows. 

Wrapt  ' '  in  the  mantle  of  the  dark, ' ' 
Against  an  aged  tree  my  form  I  leant. 

And  gazed  upon  each  shining  mark 
That  night  had  placed  upon  her  steep  ascent. 

From  fitful  flash  of  meteor  spark 
To  worlds  beneath  whose  weight  the  heavens  are  bent. 

So  deep  the  quiet  of  the  spot. 
So  broad  the  myster)-  of  silence  spread, 

It  seemed  that  from  my  earthly  lot 
I  rose  to  mingle  with  the  mighty  dead, 

Whose  steadfast  thrones  time  reaches  not, 
And  round  whose  brows  eternal  light  is  shed. 


lua 


^ 


32 


Poems. 


Far  borne  into  the  midst  of  space, 
Methought  I  heard  the  wheels  of  ages  roll, 

And  whisperings  of  another  race 
Whose  language  seemed  familiar  to  my  soul  ; 

And  beauteous  night  from  this  high  place 
Far  spread  her  broad,  illuminated  scroll. 

Upon  that  mighty  page  unrolled 
I  read,  bright  syllabled  in  blazing  spheres, 

What  science  hath  but  feebly  told 
In  all  the  wisdom  of  her  garnered  years  ; 

For  science  halts,  where  strong  and  bold 
Imagination  soars,  and  scorns  all  fears. 

Sad  seemed  the  star-typed  record  there, 
Where,  through  the  blinding  mists  and  tearful  gloom. 

All  dimly  burned  our  world  so  fair. 
Our  wondrous  world  of  sorrow,  sin  and  doom  ! 

In  sable  stoled — and  grim  despair 
Sat  on  her  brow  as  raven  on  a  tomb. 

Pale  thoughts  around  her,  like  a  host 
Of  thronging  shadows,  veiled  her  sorrowing  head — 

Remembrance  of  her  Eden  lost, 
The  guiltless  blood  upon  her  bosom  shed, 

Her  generations  that  were  dust, 
Her  millions  that  were  yet  to  join  the  dead  ! 


Remembrance  of  a  Summer's  Night.  ^t^ 

Mid  all  the  congregated  lights 
That  pendant  in  the  silver  concave  shone, 

Or  crowned  with  fire  the  golden  heights 
That  rose  like  altars  to  a  God  unknown, 

Her  light  was  saddest,  and  the  night's 
Slow  tears  that  fell  seemed  wept  for  her  alone. 

Mid  all  the  princely  orbs  that  bowed 
In  mute  obesiance  to  their  ^Monarch  sun. 

Or,  with  his  primal  force  endowed. 
In  paths  of  circling  glory  round  him  run  ; 

Mid  all  the  constellated  crowd 
Thick  strewn  by  Him,  the  wonder-working  One. 

Upon  his  world-creating  path, 
'T  was  strange,  methought,  this  beauteous  earth  alone 

Should  thus  draw  down  selectest  wrath, 
And  in  her  heart  of  fire  for  ages  groan ; 

That  here  alone  should  sorrow  scathe. 
And  mouldy  Death  erect  his  ghastly  throne  ! 

But  higher  yet  I  seemed  to  soar 
And  pierced  the  visual  dome  in  upward  flight, 

As  if,  through  angel-opened  door 
Had  passed  a  soul  untombed  from  vaulted  night, 

And  stood  where  ne'er  it  stood  before 
In  lowly  worship  of  the  new-born  light. 


34  Poems. 

'T  was  glorious  thus  in  dreams  to  tread 
The  supra  mortal  realms — abodes  where  none 

Earth-born  can  enter,  save  the  dead — 
Who  mate  with  essences  the  living  shun  ; 

Those  beautiful,  pale  forms  of  dread 
The  gifted  see,  ere  their  brief  day  is  done. 

'T  was  thus  my  soul  did  wander  far, 
The  finite  in  the  infinite,  and,  wild 

With  ecstasy,  from  star  to  star. 
And  from  the  constellations  vast  uppiled 

On  pillared  worlds  (that  pendant  are) 
To  orbic  systems,  vaster  still,  which  smiled 

In  rays  eternal  from  a  height 
Of  heights  immeasurable,  did  climb  !     And  still 

Did  climb  the  upward  maze  of  light. 
As  if  despite  the  interdicting  will 

That  quelled  the  Babel-builders'  might, 
T  would  reach  where  sat  the  enthroned  Invisible  ! 

Thus  on  that  summer's  night  I  dreamed. 
Till  half  the  stars  went  down  ;  and  to  my  tent 

Retired  :  but  every  orb  that  beamed 
Upon  the  lonely  watches  I  had  spent. 

Was  in  my  soul  ensphered,  and  gleamed 
Above  my  sleep  a  pictured  firmament ! 


To  Lizzie.  35 


TO     LIZZIE, "^ 

A  WANDERER  from  my  distant  home, 

From  those  who  blest  me  with  their  love, 

With  boundless  plains  beneath  my  feet. 
And  foreign  skies  my  head  above  ; 

I  look  around  me  sternly  here, 

And  smother  feelings  strong  and  deep, 

While  o'er  my  brow  are  gathering  dark 
The  thoughts  that  from  my  spirit  leap. 

I  think  of  her  whose  bosom  sweet. 
Has  pillowed  oft  my  sleeping  head, 

Whose  eye  would  brighten  at  my  voice, 
Whose  ear  was  quick  to  know  my  tread. 

I  think  of  her,  the  fondly  loved, 

Whose  blood  and  soul  have  mixed  with  mine, 
Till  life  had  nothing  more  to  give. 

Yet  asked  of  Heaven  no  boon  divine. 

*  Written  on  the  Plains. 


36  Poems. 

Of  her  whose  fitful  fate  I  held, 

As  Heaven  doth  hold  a  trembling  star, 

Whose  smiles  were  mine,  whose  tears  were  mine, 
And  hopes  and  joys  to  *'  make  or  mar.'" 

Oh  lovely  one,  that  pines  for  me  ! 

How  well  she  soothed  each  maddened  thought, 
And  from  the  ruins  of  my  soul 

A  fair  and  beauteous  fabric  wrought ! 

Whose  base  was  strong,  unshaken  faith — 
The  boon  to  mightier  spirits  given — 

Whose  towering  dome  was  human  love. 
That  rose  from  earth  and  lived  in  Heaven  I 

Ah,  best  beloved  that  weeps  for  me  ! 

How  oft  beneath  my  spirit's  wing 
r  ve  borne  her  through  the  worlds  of  thought, 

And  showed  her  there  each  holy  thing  ; 

Have  caught  the  fire  of  themes  sublime, 
And  wrapt  her  in  their  glorious  light. 

Till  in  her  loftiness  of  mind, 
She  stood  an  angel  in  my  sight ! 

How  beautiful  the  hours  with  her, 
How  full  of  deep,  o'erpowcring  bliss, 


m  To  Lizzie.  37 

When  bosoms  that  so  loved  were  joined, 
And  lips  that  thirsted  for  the  kiss  ! 

Unmindful  then  of  aught  but  joy, 

'T  was  death  to  gaze  and  not  to  meet  ; 

All !  all  the  same  if  fortune  smiled, 
Or  ruin  yawned  beneath  our  feet ! 

Ah  beautiful !  thrice  beautiful  ! 

And  passion  bound  me  in  her  thrall — 
In  manhood's  might  before  her  shrine 

I  knelt  me  down  and  yielded  all. 

Then  let  it  go.     If  I  have  sinned, 

'T  was  that  my  heart  knew  no  control, 

When  she  that  called  me  to  her  arms 
Was  first,  was  all  that  stirred  mv  soul. 


38  Poems. 


THE   FORGIVEN  DEAD. 

Pale  lies  she  now  before  me, 

Whom  late  I  scorned  with  bitter  sneers, 
What  spell  is  this  comes  o'er  me, 

That  all  mine  anger  disappears  ? 

My  yesterday  was  clouded 

With  thinking  of  her  cruel  wrong — 
But,  white  in  death  thus  shrouded, 

I  only  know  I  Icrved  her  long  ! 

T  was  not  herself  that  wandered  ; 

It  was  the  demon  of  her  brain — 
I  scarce  can  mourn  I  squandered 

Such  love  on  one  whom  love  hath  slain. 

For  died  she  not,  pain-haunted 

That  truth  she  had  forsook  for  gold  ? 

Death,  thou  hast  disenchanted 

Her  of  sin — chaste,  beautiful  and  cold  I 

But  yesterday  I  wept  not. 

As  pined  she  on  her  costly  bed  ; 


To  a^Mocking  Bird  Singing  in  a  Tree.         3  9 

Well  know  I  now,  she  slept  not 

There  in  peace,  till  slept  she — dead  ! 

I  do  forgive  her,  wholly ; 

Ye  angels  hear  me — I  forgive  ! 
She  lies  so  sweet  and  lowly — 

She  could  not  bear  to  sin  and  live. 

To  strew  her  tomb  with  roses, 

Pure-white,  as  virgins'  tombs  should  be, 
I  had  not  thought :  but  Fate  disposes — 

Her  soul  was  virgin  unto  me. 


TO    A    MOCKING    BIRD    SINGING 
IN  A    TREE. 

Sing  on  thou  litde  mocker,  sing — 

Sarcastic  Poet  of  the  bowery  clime  ! 
Though  full  of  scoff  thy  notes  are  sweet 

As  ever  filled  melodious  rhyme  ! 
I  love  thee  for  thy  gracefulness, 

And  for  thy  jollity — such  happiness  ! 
Oh,  I  could  seize  it  for  my  booty 

But  that  the  deed  would  make  thy  music  less. 


40  Poems. 

Say,  now,  do  not  the  feathery  bands 

Feel  hatred  for  thy  songs  which  mock  their  own 
And  as  thou  passest  by,  revile 

Thee  angrily,  with  envy  in  their  tone  ? 
Or,  are  their  little  breasts  too  pure 

To  know  the  pangs  our  human  bosoms  feel  ? 
Perhaps  they  love  thee  for  that  same, 

And  from  thy  sweetness  new  heart-gushes  steal  ? 

Upon  the  summit  of  yon  tree 

How  gaily  thou  dost  sing  !  how  free  from  pain. 
Oh,  would  that  my  sad  heart  could  bound 

With  half  the  Eden  rapture  of  thy  strain  ! 
I  then  would  mock  at  every  tear 

That  falls  where  sorrow's  shaded  fountains  flow. 
And  smile  at  ever}-  sigh  that  heaves 

In  dark  regret  o'er  some  bewildering  woe. 

But  mine  is  not  thy  breast — nor  would 

I  place  within  its  little  core  one  sting 
That  goads  my  own,  for  all  the  bliss 

That  heartless  robber)-  of  thee  would  bring. 
Ah  no,  still  keep  thy  music  power 

The  ever  radiant  glor)'  of  thy  soul, 
And  let  thy  voice  of  melody 

Soar  on,  as  now,  abhorrent  of  control. 


To  a  Mocking  Bird  Singing  in  a  Tree.  \  i 

May  be  thou  sing'st  of  heaven  sometimes, 

As  raptured  consciousness  vades  thy  breast  ; 
May  be  of  some  far  home  where  love 

O'er  bird-land  spreads  soft  cooling  shades  of  rest. 
If  man,  whose  voice  is  far  less  sweet 

Than  thine,  looks  high  for  his  eternal  home, 
Oh,  say,  do  not  thy  dream ings  too 

For  some  green  spot  and  habitation  roam  ? 

If  living  thought  can  never,  die. 

Why  should  thine  own  expire  ?     If  there  is  love 
Within  thy  heart,  it  must  live  on. 

Nor  less  than  man's  have  dwelling-place  above  ; 
Thy  notes  shall  then  be  brighter  far 

Than  now  they  be  !     And  I  may  listen,  too, 
With  finer  ear,  and  clearer  soul, 

Beneath  a  shade  more  soft,  a  sky  more  blue. 


4  2  Pr.ems. 


MARW    QUEEN   OF   SCOTTS. 

Alas,  that  aught  of  sin  or  shame 
Should  cling  around  thy  gentle  name, 
Or  sorrow  with  thy  mem'r}-  twine, 
Mid  roses  fair,  its  poisoned  vine  ! 
Beloved  of  heaven,  that  made  thee  fair — 
Earth's  favorite  child  !  who  gave  to  thee 
Her  choicest  gifts  of  beauty  rare, 
How  couldst  thou  aught  but  happy  be  ? 
Yet  sadness  round  thy  earlier  years 
Its  ever  var}'ing  shadows  threw. 
And  midst  a  world  of  torturing  fears, 
Thy  trembling  womanhood  upgrew. 
Though  rainbows  many  arched  thy  path, 
They  shone  amid  thy  numerous  tears, 
And  stood  beneath  a  sky  of  wrath. 
Though  wronged  so  deeply  that  mankind 
Indignant  reads  the  talc  of  blood, 
Vet  thou  through  mad  ambition  blind, 
Or  borne  bv  love's  resistless  flood, 


A  Cherokee  Love  Song.  43 

Too  oft  did'st  do  and  sanction  wrong. 
Alas,  that  crime  thy  bosom  knew  ! 
The  Poet  mourns  it  in  his  song, 
And  Hist'ry  weeps  to  write  it  true. 


A    CHEROKEE   LOVE    SONG. 

Oh  come  with  me  by  moonlight,  love, 
And  let  us  seek  the  river's  shore  ; 

My  light  canoe  awaits  thee,  love. 
The  sweetest  burden  e'er  it  bore  ! 

The  soft,  low  winds  are  whispering  there 
Of  human  beauty,  human  love, 

And  with  approving  faces,  too, 
The  stars  are  shining  from  above. 

Come  place  thy  small  white  hand  in  mine, 
My  boat  is  'neath  those  willow  trees, 

And  with  my  practised  arm,  the  oar 
Will  ask  no  favor  from  the  breeze. 


44  Poems. 

Now,  now  we  're  on  the  waters,  love, 
Alone  upon  the  murmuring  tide — 

Alone  !  but  why  should  we  regret, 
If  there  were  none  on  earth  beside  ? 

What  matters  it,  if  all  were  gone  ? 

Thy  bird-like  voice  could  yet  beguile, 
And  earth  were  heaven's  substitute. 

If  thou  were  left  to  make  it  smile  ! 

Oh,  mark  how  soft  the  dipping  oar, 
That  silent  cleaves  the  yielding  blue — 

Oh  list,  the  low,  sweet  melody 
Of  waves  that  beat  our  vessel  too  ! 

Oh,  look  to  heaven,  how  pure  it  seems, 
No  cloud  to  dim,  no  blot,  no  stain, 

And  say — if  we  refuse  to  love. 

Ought  we  to  hope  or  smile  again  ? 

That  island  green,  with  roses  gemmed, 
Let 's  seek  it,  love — how  sweet  a  spot  ? 

Then  let  the  hours  of  night  speed  on. 
We  live  to  love — it  matters  not ! 


Dedication  for  an  Album.  45 


DEDICATION  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

These  leaves  to  friendship  consecrate 

And  pure  affection's  holy  trust, 
You  ask  me  now  to  dedicate 

In  form  that 's  due — and  so  I  must. 

I  would  some  worthier  hand  than  mine 
The  task  essayed  ;  for  I  profane, 

With  words  that  shame  the  sacred  Nine, 
The  page  that  else  had  known  no  stain. 

Yet  e'en  the  rudest  terms  of  speech 

Are  hallowed  by  the  truth  they  breathe  ; 

And  so  these  lines  that  nothing  teach, 
May  dare  this  shrine  of  love  enwreath. 

Blest  be  each  spotless  page  herein, 
Whereon  the  hand  of  love  shall  write, 

And  worthy  of  the  place  they  win 

The  names  that  here  shall  meet  the  sight 

So  that,  fair  owner  of  this  book. 

When  you  these  leaves  shall  wander  through 


46  Poems. 

In  after  years,  and  pause  to  look 
On  name  and  date  no  longer  new, 

A  buried  past  will  seem  to  be 
Within  the  pages  that  you  turn  ; 

And  sweet  but  mournful  memory 
Will  linger  o'er  each  hallowed  urn. 


THE  RAINY  SEASON  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

The  rains  have  come,  the  winds  are  shrill, 
Dark  clouds  are  trailing  near  the  ground  ; 

The  mists  have  clothed  each  naked  hill. 
And  all  is  sad  and  drear  around. 

The  swollen  torrents  rapid  rush. 

Far  down  the  mountain  gorges  deep  ; 

Now,  falling  o'er  the  jagged  rocks. 

They  thunder  through  the  hollows  steep. 

Now,  in  a  basin  boiling  round, 

They  dance  in  maddest  music  high. 

Or,  with  a  sudden  leap  or  bound, 
Dash  on  like  bolts  of  destiny. 


The  Rainy  Seaso?i  i?i  California. 

From  mountain's  side  to  mountain's  side, 

The  chasms  vast  in  vapors  lost, 
Seem  like  a  sea  of  darkness  wide, 

Which  fancy  dreams  can  ne'er  be  crost. 

Far  off  the  loftier  mountains  stand, 

Calm,  saint-like  in  their  robes  of  white, 

Like  heaven-descended  spirits  grand 
Who  fill  the  darkness  with  their  light. 

Black  clouds  are  rolling  round  their  feet. 

And  ever  strive  to  higher  climb, 
But  still  their  mists  dissolve  in  rain, 

And  reach  not  to  that  height  sublime. 

Gone  are  the  birds  with  sunny  days, 

But  flowers  shall  cheer  us  in  their  room. 

And  shrubs  that  pined  in  summer  rays 
Shall  top  their  leaf}^  boughs  with  bloom. 

The  grass  grows  green  upon  the  hills, 
(Now  wrapt  in  thickly  fallen  clouds), 

Which  tall  and  beautiful  shall  rise 

When  they  have  cast  their  wintr}*  shrouds. 

Then  wandering  through  their  thousand  vales, 
Each  flower}'  bordered  path  shall  lead 


48  Poems. 

To  gardens  wild,  where  nature's  hand 
Hath  nurtured  all  with  kindly  heed. 

Her  own  voluptuous  couch  is  spread 
Beneath  the  curtains  of  the  sky, 

And  on  her  soft  and  flower)-  bed 

The  night  looks  down  with  loving  eye. 

But  Fancy  paints  the  scene  too  fast, 
For  thus  she  always  loves  to  leave 

The  bitter  present  or  the  past, 

And  rainbows  from  the  future  weave. 

Lo  !  night  upon  my  musings  here, 
With  rapid,  stealthy  foot  hath  crept 

Unheard  amid  the  sullen  sounds 

Which  o'er  m}-  head  have  lately  swept. 

The  pouring  rain  upon  the  roof, 
The  winds  in  wild  careering  bands, 

Seem  bent  to  see  if  tempest  proof 
The  building  on  its  basis  stands. 

The  fiend  of  this  dark  night  and  storm 
Stands  howling  at  my  very  door — 

I  dread  to  sec  her  haggard  form 

Break  in  ami  pass  the  threshold  o'er. 


The  Rainy  Season  in  California.  49 

But  hold  your  own  my  trusty  door  ! 

Yield  not  an  inch  to 's  utmost  might, 
Nor  let  the  hellish  wild  uproar 

That  reigns  without  come  in  to-night. 

It  stands — my  lonely  candle  burns, 

The  single  light  for  miles  around  ; 
Reminding  me  of  some  last  hope 

That  still  will  light  life's  gloom  profound. 

Howl  on  ye  elemental  sprites, 

And  mutter  forth  your  curses  deep, 

The  anarchy  that  others  frights, 
Shall  rock  me  soundly  into  sleep. 

For,  oh,  I  love  to  slumber  'neath 

The  tempest's  wrathful  melody, 
And  dream  all  night  that  on  its  wings 

My  soul  enchanted  soareth  free. 


50  Poems. 


THE  HARP    OF  BROKEN  STRINGS. 

A  STRANGER  in  a  stranger  land, 

Too  calm  to  weep,  too  sad  to  smile, 
I  take  my  harp  of  broken  strings, 

A  wear)'  moment  to  beguile  ; 
And  tho'  no  hope  its  promise  brings, 

And  present  joy  is  not  for  me, 
Still  o'er  that  harp  I  love  to  bend, 

And  feel  its  broken  melody 
With  all  my  shattered  feelings  blend. 

I  love  to  hear  its  funeral  voice 

Proclaim  how  sad  my  lot,  how  lone  : 
And  when  my  spirit  wilder  grows. 

To  list  its  deeper,  darker  tone. 
And  when  my  soul  more  madly  glows 

Above  the  wrecks  that  round  it  lie, 
It  fills  me  with  a  strange  delight. 

Past  mortal  bearing,  proud  and  high, 
To  feel  its  music  swell  to  might. 

When  beats  my  heart  in  doubt  and  awe. 
And  Reason  pales  upon  her  throne. 


The  Harp  of  Broken  Strings. 

Ah,  then,  when  no  kind  voice  can  cheer 
The  lot  too  desolate,  too  lone, 

Its  tones  come  sweet  upon  my  ear, 
As  twilight  o'er  some  landscape  fair  : 

As  light  upon  the  wings  of  night 
(The  meteor  flashes  in  the  air, 

The  rising  stars)  its  tones  are  bright. 

And  now  by  Sacramento's  stream. 

What  mem'ries  sweet  its  music  brings — 
The  vows  of  love,  its  smiles  and  tears. 

Hang  o'er  this  harp  of  broken  strings. 
It  speaks,  and  midst  her  blushing  fears 

The  beauteous  one  before  me  stands  ! 
Pure  spirit  in  her  downcast  eyes. 

And  like  twin  doves  her  folded  hands  ! 

It  breathes  again — and  at  my  side 

She  kneels,  with  grace  divinely  rare — 
Then  showering  kisses  on  my  lips. 

She  hides  our  blisses  with  her  hair  ; 
Then  trembling  with  delight,  she  flings 

Her  beauteous  self  into- my  arms. 
As  if  o'erpowered,  she  sought  for  wings 

To  hide  her  from  her  conscious  charms ! 


Poems. 

It  breathes  once  more,  and  bowed  in  grief, 

The  bloom  has  left  her  cheek  forever, 
While,  like  my  broken  harp-strings  now, 

Behold  her  form  with  feeling  quiver  ! 
She  turns  her  face  o'errun  with  tears, 

To  him  that  silent  bends  above  her, 
And,  by  the  sweets  of  other  years, 

Entreats  him  still,  oh,  still  to  love  her  ! 

He  loves  her  still — but  darkness  falls 

Upon  his  ruined  fortunes  now. 
And  'tis  his  exile  doom  to  flee. 

The  dews,  like  death,  are  on  his  brow, 
And  cold  the  pang  about  his  heart ; 

Oh,  cease — to  die  is  agony  : 
"T  is  more  than  death  when  loved  ones  part  1 

Well  may  this  harp  of  broken  strings 

Seem  sweet  to  me  by  this  lonely  shore. 
When  like  a  spirit  it  breaks  forth. 

And  speaks  of  beauty  evermore  ! 
When  like  a  spirit  it  evokes 

The  buried  joys  of  early  youth, 
And  clothes  the  shrines  of  early  love. 

With  all  the  radiant  lic:ht  of  truth  ! 


October  Hills,  53 


OCTOBER     HILLS. 

I  LOOK  upon  the  purple  hills 

That  rise  in  steps  to  yonder  peaks, 

And  all  my  soul  their  silence  thrills 
And  to  my  heart  their  beauty  speaks. 

What  now  to  me  the  jars  of  life, 
Its  petty  cares,  its  harder  throes  ? 

The  hills  are  free  from  toil  and  strife, 
And  clasp  me  in  their  deep  repose. 

They  soothe  the  pain  within  my  breast 
No  power  but  theirs  could  ever  reach, 

They  emblem  that  eternal  rest 
We  cannot  compass  in  our  speech. 

From  far  I  feel  their  secret  charm — 
From  far  they  shed  their  healing  balm. 

And  lost  to  sense  of  grief  or  harm 
I  plunge  within  their  pulseless  calm. 

How  full  of  peace  and  strength  they  stand, 
Self-poised  and  conscious  of  their  weight 


54  Poems. 

We  rise  with  them,  that  silent  band, 
Above  the  wrecks  of  Time  or  Fate  ; 

For,  mounting  from  their  depths  unseen, 
Their  spirit  pierces  upward,  far, 

A  soaring  pyramid  serene, 

And  Ufts  us  where  the  angels  are. 

I  would  not  lose  this  scene  of  rest, 
Nor  shall  its  dreamy  joy  depart ; 

Upon  my  soul  it  is  imprest. 

And  pictured  in  my  inmost  heart. 


THE  MAID   OF  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

As  PURE  as  the  snowflake  that  melts  on  her  lips, 
As  the  wind  like  a  lover  she  meets  at  the  door, 

And  as  sweet  as  the  roses,  as  o'er  them  she  trips. 
That  blush  at  rcvealments  ne'er  charmed  them 
before. 


The  Maid  of  the  Mountains.  55 

Is  the  Maid  of  the  Mountain,  their  pride  and  their 
boast  ; 

Her  face  like  the  morning,  her  hair  Hke  the  night, 
Her  eye  like  the  eve-star  that  mellows  our  coast, 

As  tender  in  beauty,  as  strong  in  its  light. 

We  met  by  the  river,  that  maiden  and  I, 
Which  flows  by  yon  snow-peaks  engirdled  with 
pines — 

It  was  a  rare  meeting  for  no  one  was  nigh, 
And  love  had  quite  lost  us  mid  blossom  and  vines. 

I  had  but  to  murmer  what  well  she  believed — 
Her  answer  came  leaping  to  lips  and  to  eyes. 

And  heart  spoke  to  heart,  as  her  white  bosom  heaved 
With  rapture  that  knoweth  no  language  but  sighs. 

Around  us  and  o'er  us  the  humming  bird  flew, 
As  envious  he  were  of  her  honey-dew  kiss  : 

I  whispered  her  so,  and  her  lips  the  more  grew 
To  mine  own,  rewarding  my  praises  with  bliss. 

Oh  Eden-like  moments,  how  soon  were  they  fled  ! 

For  sunlight  no  longer  was  lighting  the  stream  ; 
But  silver-winged  twilight  descended  instead. 

With  mistiness  veiled  like  an  angel  in  dream. 


56  Poems. 

She  rose  to  depart,  (my  angel)  where  I, 
Accurs't  by  the  Fates,  was  forbidden  to  go  ; 

Sweet  cot  on  the  hillside,  blessed  river  near  by, 
That  mirrors  no  beauty  like  her's  in  its  flow  ! 

She  rose  to  depart,  and  my  heart  was  awake 
To  glory  new-bom  in  her  steps  as  she  went. 

Her  stately  obeisance  the  lily  did  make, 
And  sweetest  of  blue-bells  in  reverence  bent. 

Ah,  well  might  they  worship  a  vision  so  bright, 
No  being  of  earth  could  they  deem  her  to  be, 

But  they  have  forgotten  their  passing  delight, 

While  the  pang  of  the  parting  still  lingers  with  me. 


ON   YUBA    CITY, 

The  Yuba  City  silent  stands 

Where  Providence  has  placed  her, 

The  glory 's  passed  to  other  hands. 
That  should  by  right  have  graced  her. 


On  Yuha  City.  57 

She  stands  with  aspect  sad  but  high, 

And  gazes  on  the  river, 
That  like  a  stranger  passes  by, 

And  nothing  has  to  give  her. 

Alas,  that  beauty  thus  should  fade, 

Or  live  so  unregarded  ! 
And  all  the  efforts  art  has  made 

For  her,  pass  unrewarded  ! 

Are  not  her  groves  most  fair  to  see, 

Her  paths  full  greenly  skirted  ? 
What  has  she  said,  or  done,  to  be 

Thus  doomed,  and  thus  deserted  ? 

Though  melancholy  her  decline, 

By  mem'ries  sweet 't  is  haunted. 
And  luring  tones  and  forms  divine 

Still  make  her  scenes  enchanted. 

There,  peace  domestic  reigns  supreme. 

In  quiet,  holy  beauty. 
And  like  the  smiles  of  angels,  seem 

Parental,  filial  dut}^ 

Her  aged  ones  are  good  and  mild, 
Her  children  fair  and  witty. 


58  Poems. 

But  Caroline 's  the  fairest  child 
That  charms  the  lonely  city  ! 

I've  seen  her  at  the  morning  prime — 
The  sky  looked  sweeter,  bluer  ! 

I  've  seen  her  at  the  evening  time — 
The  stars  seemed  bending  to  her  ! 

Oh,  Yuba  City  !  't  is  a  sin 
Thou  'rt  lonely  and  forsaken. 

When  uglier  cities  favor  win, 

And  prosperous  paths  have  taken. 

Who  seeks  for  beauty,  they  shall  meet 
The  picture  where  they  find  thee — 

The  Feather  River  at  thy  feet, 
The  lofty  Buttes  behind  thee. 

And  they  will  bless  the  quiet  scene 
That  holds  thee  like  a  jewel, 

And  weep  that  thou  'st  abandoned  been 
To  fortunes  cold  and  cruel. 

But,  Yuba  City,  time  will  cast 
The  changes  in  thy  favor, 

The  future  shall  redeem  the  past — 
Thou  'It  stand  whilst  others  waver  ! 


Of  Her  I  Love.  59 


OF  HER    I  LOVE. 

I  READ  but  a  moment  her  beautiful  eyes, 

I  glanced  at  the  charm  of  her  sno\^7-white  hai^ ; 

I  caught  but  the  glimpse  of  her  cheek's  blushing  dyes 
More  sweet  than  the  fruits  of  a  tropical  land ; 

I  marked  but  an  instant  her  coral-hued  lips, 
And  the  row  of  sweet  pearls  that  glimmered 
between — 
Those  lips,  like  the  roses  the  humming  bird  sips 
On  his  bright  wing  of  rainbows,  when  summer  is 
green. 

I  timidly  gazed  on  a  bosom  more  white 

Than  the  breast  of  the  swan,  more  soft  than  its 
down — 

To  rest  on  whose  pillows  were  greater  delight 
Than  all  else  of  rapture  that  heaven  may  own. 

I  gazed  but  a  second  on  these,  and  on  all 

That  make  up  the  sum  of  her  angel-like  form, 

And  ere  I  could  think  I  was  bound  in  her  thrall, 
And  peace  fled  my  breast,  as  the  birds  flee  a  storm  ! 


6o  Poems. 

I  am  bound  in  love's  pain,  and  may  never  be  free, 
Till  the  bond  is  dissolved  in  her  own  melting  kiss  : 

Till  her  loveliness,  like  the  embrace  of  a  sea, 

Enclasps  me,  and  hides  me  in  the  depths  of  its 
bliss. 


TO     THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

Oh,  blame  me  not  that  I  am  bold. 

Nor  scorn  my  too  adventurous  rhymes. 

For  how  can  he  be  tame  or  cold 

Whose  heart  hath  bloomed  in  southern  climes  ? 

Or  who  hath  lived  among  the  flowers, 
Or  by  those  clear  perennial  streams, 

Whose  music  charms  the  gliding  hours, 
Nor  gave  his  soul  to  passion's  dreams? 

Why  should  his  heart  not  love  to  live 

Within  the  light  of  beauty's  eyes. 
And  all  its  world  of  feeling  give. 

To  win  from  her,  her  trembling  sighs  ? 


To  the  Beauiiful.  6i 

Alas,  the  world  may  say  \  is  wrong, 
But  who  can  rule  the  wa)^vard  heart  ? 

For  we  are  weak,  and  nature  strong, 
And  love  is  our  immortal  part ! 

We  may  not  see  the  rosy  mouth, 

The  laughing  eye,  the  graceful  limb, 

And  bosom,  like  the  sunny  south, 
With  love  o'erflowing  from  the  brim. 

We  may  not  see  such  loveliness, 
Without  the  wish  at  least  to  gaze  ; 

And  cold  were  she,  denying  this 
To  him  whose  very  look  is  praise. 

Forgiev  me,  if  my  heart  has  erred, 
In  deeming  thou  would'st  not  despise, 

And  I  will  cancel  everj^  word. 

To  meet  forgiveness  from  thine  eyes. 


6  2  Poems. 


A    NIGHT   SCENE. 

Unbroken  silence  !  save  the  melody 

That  steals  on  silence  unawares,  and  makes 

It  seem  scarce  more  than  silence  still ;  that  takes 

Possession  of  the  senses  bodily. 

And  claims  the  slumbering  spirit  ere  it  wakes. 

Save  this  low  melody  of  waves,  no  sound 
Is  heard  among  the  circling  hills.     I  sit 
And  muse  alone — the  time  and  place  are  fit — 

And  summon  spirits  from  the  blue  profound, 
That  answer  me  and  through  my  vision  flit. 

What  beauteous  being  stands  upon  yon  hill, 

With  hair  night-hued,  and  brow  and  bosom  white  ? 
Around  her  floats  the  evening's  loving  light — 

Her  feet  are  lost  amid  the  shadows  soft  and  still, 
But  'gainst  the  sky  her  form  is  pictured  to  my  sight. 

How  still !   how  motionless  !  yet  full  of  life. 
As  is  of  music-tones  the  sleeping  string. 
As  is  of  grace  the  blue-bird's  resting  wing ! 


A  Night  Scene.  63 

She  pauses  there — each  limb  with  beauty  rife — 
As  if  through  boundless  space  her  foot  might 
spring. 

But  hark  !  what  tones  are  filling  all  the  air, 

That  drinks  them,  with  the  star-light  blended  now, 
And  wavelet-murmurings  from  below  ? 

Her  voice  !  her  harp  !  swept  by  the  white  hand  rare 
That  moon-like  guides  the  music's  tide-like  flow. 

Strange  one !  no  harp !  no  voice  I  've  heard  like  thine, 
No  startling  beauty  like  thine  own  have  seen, 
The  rounded  world  and  vaulted  heaven  between. 

To  gaze  on  thee  't  is  madness  all  divine, 
But  o'er  the  gulf  my  spirit  loves  to  lean. 

Thou  art  what  I  may  ne'er  embrace  on  earth, 
Thou  sweetly  moulded  one,  thou  heavenly-eyed  ! 
But  if  when  we  do  lay  these  forms  aside, 

For  us  new  forms  among  the  stars  have  birth. 
In  some  sweet  world  we  '11  meet,  my  spirit  bride  ! 

Fair  wprlds,  like  ripples  o'er  the  water)'  deep 
When  breezes  softly  o'er  the  surface  play. 
In  circles  one  by  one  ye  stretch  away. 

Till,  lost  to  human  vision's  wildest  sweep 
Our  souls  are  left  to  darkness  and  dismay. 


6  4  Poems. 


ODE  TO   THE  NATIONAL   FLAG 

Oh  star-gemmed  banner  of  the  free. 
Thou  streamest  still  on  high, 

A  living  beacon  to  the  world, 
The  glory  of  our  sky. 

To  thee  the  gazing  millions  turn, 
With  patriot  hopes  and  fears, 

Brave  men  with  burning  glance  uplift 
Fair  women  with  their  tears. 

As  blazing  in  the  van  of  war, 

As  flashing  in  its  cloud. 
Amid  the  rolling  thunders'  peals, 

We  call  to  thee  aloud. 

Oh  !  banner  that  our  fathers  loved, 
That  shadows  yet  their  graves 

Still  with  thy  strong-winged  eagle  speed 
Where  he  the  tempests  brave. 

Oh  never  may  thy  stars  go  down, 
Or  in  ihc  battle  pale ; 


Ode  to  the  National  Flag.  65 

Or  hands  grow  weak  that  bear  thee  up. 
Or  hearts  beneath  thee  quail. 

As  on  the  flaming  war-tide  borne 

And  in  its  hot  breath  tost. 
Now  seen  amidst  the  rifted  gloom, 

Now  in  the  darkness  lost. 

Oh  !  how  we  watch  where  yet  thou  art, 

As  on  the  battle  wears, 
And  rising,  sinking,  follow  thee 

With  thousand,  thousand  prayers. 

Those  prayers,  O  God  shall  not  be  vain — 

Descended  from  the  sky. 
With  bosom  bared,  and  sword  of  fire 

Upleaping  from  her  thigh, 

A  new  Minen'a  treads  the  plain  ; 

She  snatches  from  the  gloom 
Her  countr)^'s  flag  and  bears  it 

As  with  the  step  of  doom. 

Ah  well  she  knows,  fair  Liberty, 

How  sacred  is  the  name 
Of  that,  her  conquering  arm  defends, 

How  glorious  is  its  fame. 


66  Poems. 

And  not  unused  unto  the  strife 
Where  deeds  for  Right  are  done, 

The  earthquake  which  her  cradle  rocked 
Saw  birth  of  Washington. 

In  that  great  name  and  in  her  own, 
She  bares  her  arm  for  blood, 

And  bending  to  the  fates  on  high, 
She  strikes  for  man  and  God. 

Thus,  holy  flag  into  her  hand 

Thy  future's  all  we  give, 
Assured  thou  canst  not  stoop  to  dust. 

While  she  herself  shall  live  ! 


TO    C 


Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  golden  days 
Of  youth's  bright  dreams  and  fancies. 

When  life  was  full  of  pleasant  ways. 
And  all  its  scenes  seemed  romances. 


To  C .  67 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  the  angel-forms 
That  thronged  the  heaven  above  me, 

As  lay  I  midst  the  summer's  charms, 
And  deemed  that  one  might  love  me. 

Thou  hast  her  fine  and  air}'  shape. 

Her  brow  of  tranquil  sweetness, 
Her  large  blue  orbs,  whence  did  escape 

Such  changing  beams  of  fleetness. 

Thou  hast  her  ripe  and  rosy  mouth, 

So  doubly  sweet  in  smiling, 
Where  kisses  sunny  as  the  South, 

Lay  slumbering  but  beguiling. 

Thou  hast  her  step  of  lightsome  grace, 

Eve-like  ere  Eve  knew  sinning  ; 
The  virgin  beauty  of  a  face 

That  knows  not  it  is  winning. 

Oh,  for  my  youth  time  what  a  prize  ! 

Too  late  rare  girl  I  find  thee — 
My  dream  not  I  must  realize — 

No  bond  of  mine  can  bind  thee. 


68  Poems. 


ROSA    DUNN. 

I  LL  tell  thee  of  a  maiden  fair, 
A  bird  of  beauty,  child  of  fun, 

A  living  joy  is  in  her  air. 

And  her  sweet  name  is  Rosa  Dunn. 

Her  winning  mouth  and  laughing  eye 
Have  lovers  wounded,  many  a  one, 

And  hundreds  now  are  fain  to  die 
For  her  dear  sake,  bright  Rosa  Dunn. 

Where'er  she  moves  to  her  rare  form 
Are  all  pure  sweets  and  beauties  won, 

And,  blent  with  every  glowing  charm, 
All  nature  breathes  in  Rosa  Dunn. 

She  walks  at  morning  mid  the  flowers. 
And  drinks  their  freshness  like  the  sun, 

And  all  the  blooms  of  Eden  bowers 
Are  in  the  cheeks  of  Rosa  Dunn. 

The  rose  she  kisses  leaves  its  red 
Upon  those  lips  no  bee  would  shun  ; 


False,  but  Beautiful.  69 

And  all  the  roses  that  are  dead 
Have  died  to  live  in  Rosa  Dunn. 

If  roams  she  'neath  the  evening  light 
The  stars  her  beauty  smile  upon  ; 

The  love  and  tenderness  of  night 
Are  in  the  eyes  of  Rosa  Dunn. 

A  twin  Aurora  of  the  Dawn, 

Until  she  rise  no  Day 's  begun, 
And  Night  and  Day  to  me  are  gone, 

When  sleep  enfoldeth  Rosa  Dunn. 


FALSE,    BUT  BEAUTIFUL. 

Dark  as  a  demon's  dream  is  one  I  love — 
In  soul — but  oh,  how  beautiful  in  form! 
She  glows  like  Venus  throned  in  joy  above, 
Or  on  the  crimson  couch  of  Evening  warm 
Reposing  her  sweet  limbs,  her  heaving  breast 
Unveiled  to  him  who  lights  the  golden  west ! 
Ah,  me,  to  be  by  that  soft  hand  carest. 
To  feel  the  twining  of  that  snowy  arm. 


70  Poems. 

To  drink  that  sigh  with  richest  love  opprest, 

To  bathe  within  that  sunny  sea  of  smiles, 

To  wander  in  that  wilderness  of  wiles 

And  blissful  blandishments — it  is  to  thrill 

With  subde  poison,  and  to  feel  the  will 

Grow  weak  in  that  which  all  the  veins  doth  fill. 

Fair  sorceress  !  I  know  she  spreads  a  net 

The  strong,  the  just,  the  brave  to  snare  ;  and  yet 

My  soul  cannot,  for  its  own  sake,  forget 

The  fascinating  glance  which  flings  its  chain 

Around  my  quivering  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 

And  binds  me  to  my  painful  destiny, 

As  bird,  that  soars  no  more  on  high. 

Hangs  trembling  on  the  serpent's  doomful  eye. 


TO    L ON  RECEIVING    HER 

PORTRAIT. 

Long  years  have  passed,  and  I  have  seen  thee  not, 
Save  in  my  waking  and  my  nightly  dreams, 

When  rose  our  quiet  well-remembered  cot 

In  that  fi\r  land  of  pleasant  woods  and  streams. 


To  L on  Receiving  Her  Portrait.  7 1 

Around  my  brow  the  storms  of  thought  have  swept, 
And  o'er  my  brain  their  quivering  lightnings 
played, 

Yet  mem'ry  hath  survived  the  shock  and  kept 
Unharmed  the  impress  which  thy  love  has  made. 

Disease  hath  fed  upon  my  frame,  and  I 

Have  deemed  it  would  be  sweet  to  sleep  beneath 

The  sod  !  I  thought  of  thee,  and  would  not  die. 
But  struggled  with  my  pain  and  conquer'd  death. 

Within  the  shadows  of  the  mountains  tall, 

Which  seemed  the  wings  of  grand  and  gloomy 
thought, 

I  've  laid  me  down  and  dreamed — forgetting  all 
Save  thee  and  thy  sweet  holy  love  unbought. 

Deep  in  the  forests  lone  and  dark  I  've  sat. 

Till  sense  and  soul  were  charmed  ;  and  I  did  take 

The  voice  of  streams  for  thine,  and  dreaming  that 
Thyself  was  there,  I  wept  for  joy's  own  sake. 

Oft  gazing  on  the  Heavens,  I  've  seen  thy  form 
Of  loveliness  far  floating  midst  the  blue, 

Or  lying  on  the  couch  of  Evening  warm, 

Whose  blush  was  like  thine  own  cheeks"  rosy  hue. 


V  i^*3j^  'X  ,, 


^'^\>J 


72  Poems. 

And  now  that  thy  fair  features  meet  my  eyes, 
Presented  lifeHke  by  the  skill  of  art, 

I  feel  a  thousand  raptures  bird-like  rise, 

And  form  sweet  music-circles  round  my  heart. 

I  look  again  :  alas,  those  eyes  are  sad 
As  lonely  stars  that  in  the  ocean  sit ! 

Reproach  me  not,  sweet  orbs  !  for  life  has  had 
Few  charms  for  me  since  last  those  eyes  I  met. 

I  turn  away  :  I  cannot  bear  those  eyes 
Of  melancholy  meaning,  calm  and  deep  ; 

They  speak  to  me  of  rudely  rended  ties — 
And  life's  stern  task  allows  no  time  to  weep. 


THE  STOLEN   WHITE  GIRL, 

The  prairies  are  broad,  and  the  woodlands  are  wide 
And  proud  on  his  steed  the  wild    half-breed    may 

ride, 
With  the  belt  round  his  waist  and  the  knife  at  his 

side. 
And  no  white  man  mav  claim  his  beautiful  bride. 


The  Stolen  White  Girl  73 

Though  he  stole  her  away  from  the  land  of  the 

whites, 
Pursuit  is  in  vain,  for  her  bosom  delights 
In  the  love  that  she  bears  the  dark-eyed,  the  proud, 
Whose  glance  is  like  starlight  beneath  a  night-cloud. 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  they  '11  stray, 
Where  the  shadows  like  night  are  lingering  all  day  ; 
Where  the  flowers  are   springing  up  wild  at  their 

feet, 
And  the  voices  of  birds  in  the  branches  are  sweet. 

Together  they  '11  roam  by  the  streamlets  that  run, 
O'ershadowed  at  times  then  meeting  the  sun — 
The  streamlets  that  soften  their  varying  tune, 
As  up  the  blue  heavens  calm  wanders  the  moon  ! 

The  contrast  between  them  is  pleasing  and  rare  ; 
Her  sweet  eye  of  blue,  and  her  soft  silken  hair. 
Her  beautiful  waist,  and  her  bosom  of  white 
That  heaves  to  the  touch  with  a  sense  of  delight ; 

His  form  more  majestic  and  darker  his  brow. 
Where  the  sun  has  imparted  its  liveliest  glow — 
An  eye  that  grows  brighter  with  passion's  true  fire. 
As  he  looks  on  his  loved  one  with  earnest  desire. 


74  Poems. 

Oh,  never  let  Sorrow's  cloud  darken  their  fate, 
The  girl  of  the  "pale  face,"  her  Indian  mate  ! 
But  deep  in  the  forest  of  shadows  and  flowers, 
Let  Happiness  smile,  as  she  wings  their  sweet  hours. 


A   JUNE   MORNIXG. 

The  Morn  is  coming  o'er  the  hills 

In  vestments  rich  and  rare, 
Like  girlhood  dressed  in  flowing  robes, 

With  waves  of  golden  hair. 

A  blessing 's  in  her  hand  for  man, 

A  gift  of  peace  and  light ; 
For  while  she  walks  the  fields  of  Heaven 

She  plucks  their  treasures  bright. 

The  birds,  those  poets  of  the  sky 

Whose  voices  ne'er  grow  old, 
With  gladness  sing,  and  plume  their  wings 

Of  satin  and  of  gold. 


A  Jime  Morning.  75 

The  partridge  through  the  thicket  runs, 

Clear  whistling  to  his  mate — 
What  knoweth  he  of  grief  or  pain  ? 

He  never  heard  of  fate  ! 

The  deer  upon  the  hills  have  seen 

The  coming  of  fair  morn, 
And  haste  to  crop  the  grass  all  wet 

With  dew-drops  from  her  horn  ; 

The  proud  old  buck  with  andered  head, 

The  nimble-footed  doe, 
The  fawn  with  eye  of  innocence 

And  skin  like  calico  ! 

And  over  all  the  eagle  soars 

In  regal  majesty, 
His  gray  wing  reddening  in  yon  cloud 

That  decks  the  eastern  sky  ; 

On  mightier  wing  than  aught  that  flies. 

With  keen,  far-reaching  eye, 
He  soars  like  genius  in  the  blaze 

Of  Immortality ! 

And  man,  whose  fancy  mounts  on  high 
E'en  where  the  angels  sing, 


7  6  Poems. 

Immortal  man  looks  up  from  earth, 
And  envies  him  his  wing. 

Well  may  each  living  thing  rejoice, 
For  never  yet  was  born, 

Beneath  the  eternal  eye  of  God, 
A  fresher,  lovelier  mom  ! 


THE    SABBATH   BELLS, 

The  Sabbath  bells  are  ringing 
With  clear  and  cheerful  notes, 

And  from  the  steeple  springing, 
Far  oft'  the  music  floats. 

To  yonder  mountains  reaches, 

The  ever  rising  strain, 
And  Echo's  dying  speeches 

Repeat  it  o'er  again. 

The  summer  woodlands  filling, 
The  solemn  cadence  rolls, 

And  through  the  leaves  is  thrilling 
Like  soft,  pulsating  souls. 


The  Sabbath  Bells.  ']'] 

The  air  with  rippHng  motion, 

^oUan  answers  gives, 
And  like  a  trembhng  ocean, 

Its  outspread  bosom  heaves. 

The  far  horizon  sweeping, 

Each  tone  majestic  swells, 
And  all  the  world  is  leaping 

Beneath  the  sounding  bells. 

'T  is  solemn,  yet 't  is  cheerful, 

A  clear  and  pleasant  voice. 
That  bids  the  sad  and  tearful 

Be  hopeful  and  rejoice. 

Let  sabbath  morns  unclouded 
Still  hear  these  tones  of  peace, 

For  earth  with  woe  is  shrouded 
When  sabbath  bells  shall  cease. 


yS  Poems. 


POEM.* 

The  waves  that  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Through  many  an  age  had  rolled 

Ere  fortune  found  her  favorite  seat 
Within  this  land  of  gold. 

The  Digger,  searching  for  his  roots, 
Here  roamed  the  region  wide — 

Or,  wearied  with  the  day's  pursuits, 
Slept  by  this  restless  tide. 

The  dream  of  greatness  never  rose 

Upon  his  simple  brain  ; 
The  wealth  on  which  a  nation  grows. 

And  builds  its  power  to  reign. 

All  darkly  lay  beneath  his  tread. 
Where  many  a  stream  did  wind. 

Deep  slumbering  in  its  yellow  bed. 
The  charm  that  rules  mankind. 

•Delivered  at  Commencement  of  Oakland  College,  Cal.,  June  6th,  iS6l. 


Poem,  79 

Had  he  and  his  dark  brethren  known 

Of  gold  the  countless  worth, 
They  now  beyond  that  power  had  grown 

Which  sweeps  them  from  the  earth. 

But  happier  he  perchance,  by  far. 

Still  digging  for  his  roots, 
Than  thousand  paler  wanderers  are 

Whose  toil  hath  had  no  fruits. 

Still  following  luck's  unsteady  star. 

Where'er  its  light  hath  gleamed. 
To  many  a  gulch  and  burning  bar, 

Which  proved  not  what  it  seemed. 

How  wearied  they  have  sat  them  down. 

To  watch  the  passers  by — 
The  throng  that  still  'gainst  Fortune's  frown. 

Their  varied  ''prospects"  My. 

Behold  the  active  and  the  young, 
Whose  strength  not  yet  doth  fail, 

And  hear  them,  with  a  cheerful  tongue, 
Encourage  those  that  quail. 

With  mournful,  melancholly  look, 
The  broken-hearted  come. 


8o  Poems. 

Whose  souls  we  read  as  in  a  book, 
Though  shut  their  Hps  and  dumb  ! 

And  mark  yon  aged,  trembling  one, 
How  weak  his  step  and  slow  ! 

Ah,  hear  him  as  he  totters  on. 
Sigh  painfully  and  low  ! 

Far  from  the  peaceful  home  he  left, 

In  fever- rage  for  gold — 
Of  friends,  almost  of  hope  bereft, 

He  now  is  trebly  old. 

And  Fortune  often  favors  not, 
Who  most  her  favors  need  ; 

Thus  he  may  wander  on  forgot, 
While  strong  ones  gain  the  meed. 

How  many  hearts  like  his  have  pined, 

As  prisoned  bird  of  air, 
For  sunny  homes  they  left  behind, 

And  friends  who  loved  them  there. 

And  many  a  merry  heart  shall  pine, 
Through  long  and  lonesome  years. 

And  watch  the  light  of  life  decline 
Amidst  uncounted  tears. 


Poem. 

Far  off  among  the  mountains  stern, 
Shall  thousands  meet  with  blight, 

And  many  a  raven  lock  shall  turn 
To  hairs  of  frosty  white  ; 

And  many  a  lonely  grave  shall  hide 

The  mouldering  form  of  him 
For  whom  sad  eyes  are  never  dried, 

With  age  and  sorrow  dim. 

Yet,  though  the  wayside  all  be  strewn 

With  sorrows  and  with  graves. 
The  glory  of  the  race  is  shown 

By  what  it  does  and  braves. 

What  though  the  desert's  mouldering  heaps 

Affright  the  starded  eye — 
What  though  in  wilds  the  venturer  sleeps. 

His  bones  uncovered  lie, 

'T  is  not  the  living  that  have  won 

Alone  the  victory : 
But  each  dead  soldier,  too,  has  done 

His  part  as  loftily. 

T  is  they — the  living  and  the  dead — 
Who  have  redeemed  our  land  : 


82  Poe?ns. 

Have  cities  reared,  the  arts  have  spread, 
And  placed  us  where  we  stand. 

As  led  Adventure  bold  before, 
The  Arts  and  Learning  came  ; 

And  now,  behold  !  upon  this  shore 
They  have  a  place  and  name. 

Where  roamed  erewhile  the  rugged  bear 

Amid  these  oaks  of  green. 
And  wandering  from  his  mountain  lair 

The  cougar's  steps  were  seen, 

Lo  !  Peace  hath  built  her  quiet  nest  ; 

And  ' '  mild-eyed  Science  "  roves, 
As  was  her  wont  when  Greece  was  blest, 

In  Academic  groves. 

Oh  !  tranquil  be  these  shades  for  aye, 
These  groves  forever  green  ; 

And  youth  and  age  still  bless  their  day 
That  here  their  steps  have  been. 

May  Learning  here  still  have  her  seat, 

Her  empire  of  the  mind  ; 
The  home  of  Genius,  Wit's  Retreat, 

Whatc'er  is  pure  refined. 


Erinna.  83 

And  thus  the  proudest  boast  shall  be 

Of  young  Ambition  crowned — 
The  woods  of  Oakland  sheltered  me, 

Their  leaves  my  brow  have  bound. " 


ERINNA.  * 

Imagination  !  rouse  thee  from  repose, 
And  to  our  eyes  Erinna  lost  disclose  ; 
Since  from  the  living  voice  of  Time  is  gone 
Her  genius-gifted  and  melodious  tone. 
And  from  his  starlit  page  the  words  are  fled 
She  from  her  early  lyre  in  wonder  shed  ! 
Arouse  thee  !  fling  around  her  fancied  form 
A  glorious  hue — a  beauty  rich  and  warm. 
'T  is  done  :  alone  by  Lesbos '  wave-washed  strand 
I  see  her  in  the  pride  of  beauty  stand, 
Far  gazing  where  the  /Egena  waters  smile 
Around  her  native  home  and  classic  isle. 


*  Erinna,  a  native  of  Lesbos  and  friend  of  Sappho,  died  at  the  early  age 
of  nineteen.  She  is  described  as  a  girl  of  extraordinary  beauty  and  genius, 
but  her  works,  all  except  two  or  three  epigrams,  have  unfortunately  perished. 
— [Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  Ancients.     By  Wm.  Peter,  A.  M. 


84  Poems. 

Soft  blow  the  breezes  on  her  snowy  brow, 

And  stir  the  folds  around  her  limbs  that  flow  ; 

Her  golden  hair's  luxuriance  on  her  neck 

Falls  unregarded  down — it  needs  no  check, 

For  who  would  comb  the  plumage  of  the  bird, 

Or  smooth  the  dimpling  waves  by  Zephyrs  stirred  ? 

Her  small  white  hands  are  linked  beneath  her  zone, 

And  'tween  her  sweetly  rounded  arms  are  shown 

Twin  spheres  of  love  and  Pleasure's  burning  throne  I 

A  glow  is  on  her  cheeks  and  fresh  her  lips 

As  evening  cloud  the  sun's  vermilion  tips  ; 

Her  clear,  bright  eye  wild  wanders  o'er  the  main, 

That  rolling  its  blue  waves  along,  a  strain 

Eternal  utters  and  sublime,  to  charm 

The  fair,  green  isles  that  o'er  its  bosom  swarm. 

Ah,  beautiful  indeed  !    What  magic  gives 
The  grace  that  in  her  every  movement  lives  ? 
What  power  unseen  is  breathing  o'er  her  face, 
Where  ever}'  lineament  divine  we  trace  ? 
It  is  the  magic  Sorcerer  never  stole 
From  science  dread — the  magic  of  the  soul  ! 
It  is  the  power  of  Genius,  Heaven  conferred. 
Which,  though  it  be  unseen  and  all  unheard, 
Imparts  its  own  true  beauty  to  the  face, 
And  lends  unto  the  form  its  bloom  and  grace. 


Erinna.  85 

Erinna,  mid  the  objects  Time  has  cast 

His  hand  upon,  thou  standest  within  the  past 

In  lonely  and  peculiar  loveliness. 

The  child  of  song,  with  nature's  own  impress 

Upon  thee,  yet  thy  harp  is  hushed,  and  no 

Sweet  strains  of  thine  through  distant  times  shall  flow 

Thy  voice  hath  perished  sweetly  though  it  sung, 

And  perished  those  who  on  its  accents  hung. 

Thou  wert  a  bird  that  breathed  its  soul  away 
In  song,  and  died — but  Echo  lost  the  lay  ; 
Thou  wert  a  star  which  shone  a  single  night. 
But,  setting  once,  returned  no  more  its  light. 
Thou  art  a  glorious  image  of  the  mind 
Seen  through  the  depths  of  ages  far  behind, 
Round  which  our  Fancy  flings  her  brightest  beams, 
While  ancient  Stor}'  faintly  aids  her  dreams. 

The  friend  of  Sappho  !  linked  together  be 

Those  names,  and  never  wrecked  on  Time's  wide  sea; 

And  when  we  read  the  passion-wildering  strain 

Of  Sappho's  muse,  that  charms  the  listening  brain,. 

We  '11  feel  Erinna's  voice  our  hearts  inspire, 

And  deem  her  lovely  hand  is  on  the  lyre  ! 

8 


86  Poems. 


LINES   ON  A  HUMMING  BIRD  SEEN  AT 
A  LADY'S  WINDOW. 

Yon  dew-drunk  bacchanal 

Hath  emptied  all  the  roses  of  their  sweets, 

And  drained  the  fluent  souls 

Of  all  the  lilies  from  their  cr}-stal  bowls  ; 

And  now,  on  rapid  wing  he  fleets 

To  where  by  yonder  crystal  pane 

A  lady,  young  and  fair, 

Looks  out  upon  the  sifting  sunlit  rain. 

That  ripe,  red  mouth  he  takes 

For  rarer  flower  than  ever  yet  was  quaffed, 

And  longeth  much  to  sip, 

The  honey  of  that  warm  and  dewy  lip, 

And  drain  its  sweetness  at  a  draught. 

Ah,  vain,  delusive  hope  !  'tis  hard, 

But,  rainbow  wing-ed  bird, 

Thou  'rt  not  alone  from  those  sweet  lips  debarred. 

Now,  charm-ed  with  her  eyes. 

And  dazzled  by  their  more  than  sunny  light. 


California.  87 

He  winnoweth  with  his  wings 

The  fineness  of  the  golden  mist,  and  swings, 

A  breathing  glory  in  her  sight  j 

Too  happy  bird,  he's  won  a  smile 

From  that  proud  beauty  there 

Which  from  his  throne  an  angel  might  beguile. 

How  dizzy  with  delight 

He  spins  his  radiant  circles  in  the  air  ! 

Now,  on  their  spiral  breath 

Upborn,  he  'scapes  th'  enchantress  underneath 

And  will  not  die  of  joy  or  of  despair — 

The  joy  of  her  bright  eyes,  anfi  wild. 

Despairing  e'er  to  win 

The  nectar  of  those  lips  which  on  him  smiled. 


CALIFORNIA. 

Bright  land  of  summery  days  and  golden  peace. 
Of  vine  and  flower  and  ever  rich  increase  ; 
Of  veined  hills  and  mountains  treasure-stored. 
Where  miser-gnomes  in  secret  watch  their  hoard, 
And  startle  at  the  burglar  pick  and  spade. 


88 


That  do  their  careful-hidden  wealth  invade, 
I  would  some  better  worthier  hand  than  mine 
Could  yield  thee  now  the  tributes  that  are  thine, 
And  paint  thee,  as  a  poet  should,  divine  ! 
But,  poor  indeed  would  be  the  tongue,  and  weak, 
Which  could  not  something  of  thy  glories  speak. 
And  while  for  thee  no  gems  of  thought  I  bring 
From  Starr}-  paths  of  lonely  wandering. 
Where  Genius  wont  to  stray,  yet  may  my  muse 
Have  found  such  tribute  as  thou  'It  not  refuse — 
Some  humbler  flowers  of  modest  mien  and  hue 
By  silver  streams  in  truth's  fair  fields  that  grew. 

Than  this  the  sun  lights  up  no  lovelier  land, 

So  wondrous  rich  and  beautiful  and  grand ! 

From  where  Old  Ocean  'gainst  the  rock-bound  shore 

His  billows  roll  with  never-ceasing  roar 

To  where  the  far-off  ghostly  snow-realm  shines, 

Or  solemn  music  of  the  mountain  pines 

Sounds  through  those  dim  and  haunted  solitudes, 

As  if  the  thunder  whispered  to  the  woods  ; 

Or  where  the  golden-sanded  streams  do  stray 

And  freshen  Nature  in  their  gladdening  way  ; 

Wiicrc'cr  our  footsteps  tend  our  visions  roam, 

We  find  but  beauty's  Eden,  grandeur's  home  ! 


California.  89 

Yet  not  alone  to  Nature's  bounteous  hand 

Are  due  the  glories  of  this  magic  land  ; 

For  man  hath  taught  its  fertile  soil  to  yield 

The  yellow  largess  of  the  waving  field, 

And  give  to  generous  toil  as  rich  guerdon 

Of  thousand  fruits  as  toil  hath  ever  won. 

In  deed  and  truth  not  idle  hath  he  been — 

His  busy  work  is  all  around  us  seen. 

From  north  to  south,  and  from  the  east  to  west, 

His  forming,  changing  hand  hath  not  seen  rest. 

The  Arts  and  Labor  spake,  and  lo  !  there  rose 

(As  dream-like  as  the  cloud-born  city  shows, 

At  morning  in  the  east)  this  grandest  Queen 

Of  all  the  cities  of  the  West.     With  mien 

Majestic  as  of  right  her  look  should  be, 

She  sits  like  Tyre  of  old  beside  the  sea  ; 

And,  while  the  messengers  of  commerce  wait. 

She  opens  wide  and  free  her  Golden  Gate. 

From  far  to  her  the  nations  laden  come 

With  silks  and  wares  and  precious  stones  and  gum, 

And  of  the  spoils  she  ever}-  land  beguiles 

And  ocean  yields  them  from  his  thousand  isles. 

Nor  less  the  Genius  of  the  Arts,  with  aid 
Of  Labor's  rugged  toil,  hath  been  displayed 


go  Poems. 

Where,  winding  through  the  arid  plains  and  drear 

That  freshen  with  the  Hquid  presence  near, 

Or  circHng  round  the  pine-clad  mountain's  side. 

With  crystal  music  in  its  rippling  tide, 

Or  rolling,  joyous  in  its  volumed  flow, 

O'er  yawning  gulf  and  deep  abyss  below, 

The  sinuous  flume  far  bears  its  precious  stream, 

And  thousand  hearts  are  gladdened  in  its  gleam  ! 

Nor  less  where,  swift  upon  his  path  of  fire. 

The  modern  Mercur)-  treads  th'  electric  wire — 

The  living  chord  that  vibrates  through  the  hills, 

Groans  in  the  storms  or  in  the  breezes  thrills  ; 

Threads  plain  and  wilderness,  and  pierces  far 

To  homes  that  nestle  where  the  glaciers  are. 

Nor  less  again  have  Art  and  Labor  wrought 

To  realize  the  bold,  inventive  thought 

That  finds  achievement  in  the  tunneled  hills. 

The  sunken  shaft,  the  thunder  of  the  mills  ; 

The  rivers  leaping  from  their  ancient  bed 

And  plunging  headlong  in  the  course  they're  led  ; 

The  mountains  crumbling  to  the  level  plain, 

And  forests  prostrate  "ncath  the  ax's  reign. 

And  shall  wc  view  these  miracles  and  more 
Which  mind  and  muscle  ne\er  wrought  before, 


California.  9 1 

Without  remembrance  in  these  latter  years, 

Of  those  brave  men,  those  hardy  Pioneers, 

Who  led  the  way  for  Science,  Art,  and  Law, 

"Mid  dangers  their  successors  never  saw, 

And  countless  hardships  that  they  never  knew  ? 

The  famed  and  unfamed  heroes  tried  and  true, 

Who  crowded  into  months  or  days  the  deeds 

Of  years,  and  of  young  empire  sowed  the  seeds  ? 

Amid  the  mass  there  here  and  there  appears 

Some  reverend  head,  majestic  as  a  seer's — 

Arising  from  the  rest  like  snow-crowned  peak, 

Around  whose  brow  the  whitening  tempests  break  ! 

These  are  the  Pioneers  of  Pioneers, 

Those  elder  heroes  in  the  fight,  who,  years 

And  years  agone,  did  drive  the  wild  beast  back 

To  plant  their  homes  where  late  he  left  the  track. 

They  "re  sinking,  one  by  one,  like  pines  that  long 

Have  braved,  erect,  the  howling  winters  strong, 

To  fall  at  last  midst  stillest  peace  profound. 

And  wake  the  woods  with  wonder  at  the  sound. 

Shall  these  old  heroes  be  forgot  ?     Not  so. 

For,  while  they  yet  survive  Time's  downward  flow, 

I  see  a  rescuing  hand  stretched  forth  to  save 

The  good,  the  true,  from  dark  Oblivion's  grave. 

T  is  woman's  hand  that  thus  would  snatch  from  night 


9  2  Poems, 

Those  honored  names  far  worthier  of  the  Hght, 

And  them  transmit  to  shine  on  Histor}'s  scroll 

When  that  gray  sage  his  records  shall  unroll. 

And  yet  some  whom  the  weeping  muse  laments, 

Have  their  unwrit  but  lasting  monuments. 

Such  is  that  Peak  which  bears  brave  Lassen's  name — 

A  fit  memorial  of  the  grandest  fame  ; 

For  it  shall  stand  while  crowns  and  laurels  fail, 

And  Time  strews  men  like  leaves  upon  the  gale. 

Proud  land,  to  give  such  honored  men  their  graves  ! 
Long  as  thy  shore  the  broad  Pacific  laves 
Or  soars  to  heaven  ]\Iount  Shasta's  brow  of  awe 
(Like  that  "white  throne ''  and  vast  th'  Evangel  saw), 
Shall  thy  most  rare  and  golden  name  be  crowned 
With  all  that  glor>'  gives,  the  world  around  ! 
Still  shall  the  nations  visit  thee  from  far, 
(With  Hesper  deemed  a  not  unequal  star  ;) 
Still  shalt  thou  lavish,  pour  thy  treasures  forth, 
Enriching  all  from  thy  exhaustlcss  worth  ; 
Still  shall  thy  sons  be  brave,  thy  daughters  fair, 
And  Art  and  Science  breathe  thy  purer  air. 


My  Lost  Lave.  93 


MY  LOST  LOVE. 

I  SAW  her  when  my  heart  was  young, 
And  she  was  beautiful  and  fair, 

With  silver  music  on  her  tongue, 
And  golden  glor)^  in  her  hair  ; 

And  all  love's  glances  round  her  flung, 
And  Eve's  first  sweetness  in  her  air. 

I  saw  her  'mid  the  giddy  throng 

My  bosom  filled  with  wild  romance  ; 

T  was  she  who  sang  the  sweetest  song, 
And  she  the  stateliest  in  the  dance. 

Oh,  could  her  heart  to  me  belong. 
Her  kisses  wzxm  my  soul  entrance  ! 

I  saw  her  by  the  wildwood  stream. 
Where  swung  the  lilies  tall  and  pale. 

And  roses  kissed  the  sunny  beam, 
And  by  their  blushes  told  the  tale — 

And  rose  and  lily  (love  the  theme) 
Upon  her  cheek  did  grow  and  fail. 


94  Poems. 

'  *  That  rose's  image  in  the  wave, ' ' 

She  said,  ' '  how  sweet,  reflected  there  ! 
Yet  one  rude  gale  it  cannot  brave, 
But  scattered  all  its  beauties  are. ' ' 

' '  Its  perfume  still  the  flower  shall  save 

Which  lives  on  shore,  and  bless  the  air. ' ' 

' '  It  too  shall  pass, ' '  she  sadly  said. 
I  could  not  reason  with  her  mood. 
But  felt  the  shadow  of  her  dread 
E'en  in  that  summer  solitude. 
Oh,  Heaven,  shelter  that  dear  head. 

Though  flowers  may  die  in  this  lone  wood  1 

I  saw  her  when  the  dawning  Day 

Was  sculpturing  from  the  silent  night, 

Her  white  and  stainless  form  ;  each  ray 
Revealed  new  raptures  to  my  sight. 

And,  as  the  darkness  fell  away, 
My  arms  enfolded  all  delight. 

I  saw  her  in  another's  arms  I 

Oh,  Death,  within  thy  cold  embrace. 

The  lily's  bloom,  the  rose's  charms 
Aff"righted  from  that  fairest  face. 

Oh,  cruel  is  the  fate  which  harms 
What  God  himself  can  ne'er  replace. 


Poem.  95 

I  saw  her  next — alas,  no  more  ! 

How  desolate  a  soul  can  be  ! 
I  wandered  to  the  streamlet's  shore, 

No  rose  nor  lily  could  I  see  ; 
Yet  fell  a  voice  :  "To  thee  no  more 

I  come,  but  thou  shalt  come  to  me. 


POEM.'' 


All  hail,  the  fairest,  greatest,  best  of  days  ! 

With  heaving  hearts,  and  tongues  attuned  to  praise. 

Behold,  what  thousands  at  thy  coming  throng, 

With  bannered  pomp,  with  eloquence  and  song. 

Upon  her  path  impulsive  bounds  the  earth, 

As  conscious  of  her  deed  of  grandest  birth  ; 

And  Time's  Recorder,  standing  in  the  sun, 

To  count  the  orbic  periods  as  they  run. 

Re-notes  the  chiefest  hour  of  all  the  age, 

And  finds  new  glory  on  his  blazing  page. 

Oh,  well  this  day  may  throbbing  bosoms  beat, 

*  Delivered  at  San  Francisco,  July  4th,  1861. 


96  Poems. 

And  fen^ent  spirits  feel  divinest  heat, 
And  young  and  old,  with  willing  steps  and  free, 
And  voices  glad  as  waves  of  summery  sea, 
Come  forth  from  cottage  and  from  hall,  to  fling 
On  Freedom's  shrine  the  tributes  that  they  bring  ! 

Well  might  the  theme  the  meanest  muse  inspire. 

To  sweep  the  willing  chords  with  hand  of  fire, 

For,  burning  in  the  firmament  of  fame. 

Each  name  renowned  pours  down  its  flood  of  flame. 

And  deeds  come  crowding  in  the  path  of  years. 

Till  all  the  Past  in  one  grand  scene  appears  ; 

And  standing  midst  the  wondrous  days  of  old, 

We  seem,  with  unvailed  vision  to  behold 

What  Kings  with  trembling  and  with  awe  surveyed, 

The  deep  foundations  of  an  empire  laid. 

With  Adams  and  with  Washington  we  see 

The  growing  of  the  shadowed  prophecy. 

And  watch,  elate,  the  pillared  structure  rise, 

Till,  crowned  with  stars,  and  domed  amid  the  skies. 

It  fronts  the  Nations  in  its  strength  :  and,  lo  ! 

Amidst  the  rapture  of  the  hour  aglow, 

From  yonder  far-seen  Heaven's  supremest  heights 

Descendeth  Immortality,  and  writes 

Her  name  upon  its  constellated  brow  ! 


Poem.  97 

Long  years,  or  bright  or  dark  that  tower  has  stood — 
Full  many  a  siege  has  braved  of  fire  and  flood  ; 
Contending  factions  sweeping  at  its  base  at  will, 
The  storms  have  cleared  and  left  it  glorious  still. 
Through  night  and  darkness  has  its  beacon  light 
Still  shone  upon  the  nation's  wondering  sight  ; 
And  when  the\'  looked  to  see  its  proud  dome  bend, 
And  midst  the  blackening  gloom  and  wreck  descend, 
It  rose,  emerging  from  the  tempests  shock, 
Like  C'himborazo's  condor-nesting  rock  I 

But  in  our  dome  the  eagle  builds  its  nest, 
And  with  our  banner  flies  with  armored  breast ; 
Yet,  crawling  round  those  pillars  white,  we've  seen 
Beneath  his  perch,  those  meaner  things  unclean  ; 
That  hissing  wind  where  demigods  have  trod  ! 
They've  slimed  Mount  Vernon's  consecrated  sod. 
In  all  the  nation's  highways  still  we  meet 
Their  coiling  shapes,  and  in  the  august  seat, 
Where  sat  a  Washington,  but  late  we  found 
The  meanest  reptile  of  them  all  inwound. 
But  now  these  slimier  things  their  tasks  have  done. 
And  in  their  stead  comes  forth  the  monster  one, 
Their  many-headed  sire  !     Yea,  Treason  rears 
Aloft  his  snaky  front,  and  impious,  dares 


98  Poems. 

The  high  and  holy  place,  where  sits  enthroned 
Our  countr}'*s  Genius,  with  her  armies  zoned. 
Black  rolls  the  cloud  o'er  friend  and  foe  alike — 
But  whom,  whom  shall  the  bolts  of  vengeance  strike? 
Methinks  the  starr}-  banner  that  had  braved 
The  regal  mistress  of  the  deep,  has  waved 
Where  Cortez'  banners  soared  ;  with  victory  blest, 
Has  rippled  in  the  breezes  of  the  west ; 
In  northern  hurricane  has  tost,  and  known 
But  triumph  in  its  march  from  zone  to  zone. 
Shall  never  sink  before  you  rebel  crew — 
Shall  never  bow.  vile  traitors,  unto  you  ! 

Ah,  would  those  tongues  could  speak  which  now  are 

dumb  ! 
For,  lo  !  the  evil  days  have  on  us  come. 
And  heroes,  patriots  stand  appalled  to  see 
In  hands  untried  the  nation's  tlesiiny. 
Good  men  and  true  there  are — strong  men  and  bold  ; 
But  not,  oh,  not  the  mighty  men  of  old  ! 
'Twas  not  till  Jackson's  heart  was  dust ;  till  Day 
To  Night  had  given  the  electric  brain  of  Clay  ; 
Till  God-like  Webster's  all  imperial  mind, 
From  its  vast  sphere  of  living  light  declined, 
That  Treason,  scourged  into  liis  den,  did  dare 


Poem.  99 

Again  come  forth  to  foul  the  shrinking  air, 
And  blot  the  face  of  Freedom's  soil  with  births 
That  Hell  shall  own  too  monstrous  for  the  earth's. 
And  he  who  stood  those  men  of  strength  beside, 
In  heart  and  brain  and  breadth  of  soul  allied, 
The  statesman  of  a  younger  time,  but  tried 
In  days  his  elders  might  have  shrunk  to  see — 
The  gallant,  glorious  Douglas,  where  is  he  ? 
The  hosts  that  rallied  to  his  battle  cry, 
And  deemed  such  power  was  never  made  to  die. 
Now  weep  above  the  spot  whose  sods  enfold 
The  man  of  might  this  orb  shall  seldom  mould. 
He  died  too  soon,  but  other  souls  sublime 
Shall  spring  perchance,  from  out  this  troublous  time. 
And,  seizing  from  each  silent  chieftain's  grave 
The  drooping,  mourning  str.ndards  of  the  brave. 
Their  folds  unfurl  and  bear  them  to  the  field 
Where  free-born  ])atriots  die  but  never  yield. 

(jod  of  our  fathers,  grant  that  such  there  be  ! 
And  round  them  pour  the  millions  of  the  free. 
Let  voice  to  voice,  and  hand  to  hand,  and  soul 
To  soul,  give  answer,  and  combine,  as  roll 
The  waves  unto  the  marching  winds  that  sweep 
Cloud-bannered,  thunder-armed,  upon  the  deep. 


I  oo  Poems. 

In  peace  or  war  s.ill  let  our  Nation  stand — 
Fair  Liberty  still  haunt  her  native  land, 
And  lon^,  long  after  we  have  sunk  to  dust, 
And  crowns  and  kingdoms  failed,  as  fail  they  must, 
And  Treason,  spreading  wide  its  serpent  toils 
Has  died,  self-stung  in  its  own  coils — 
This  frame  gigantic  of  our  Nation's  might, 
Shall  loom  upon  the  world's  enraptured  sight, 
Still  bearing  on  its  broad,  majestic  brow% 
KsTO  Perpetua  I — Eternal  be,  as  now. 


THE    ''SINGIXG    SP//^/T."* 

Within  the  forest's  depths  I  wandered  once 

And  sweetest  warbling  music  heard — 
Methought  it  were  the  water-sprite  at  first, 

And  then  some  lonely  singing  bird  ! 
And  still  the  music  in  its  softness  rose 

And  fell  upon  my  heart  like  light, 
Which  from  its  dreary  realm  dispelled 

Pale  Sadness,  with  her  robe  of  night. 

*  A  Poem  addressed  to  Miss  A.  A.  B. 


The  ' '  Singing  Spirit. ' '  loi 

The  shadows  left  my  sobered,  pensive  brow, 

My  soul  uprising  freshened  seemed. 
And  every  thing  I  gazed  upon  as  now, 

Took  hues  of  which  so  oft  I've  dreamed  ! 
I  glanced  from  stem  to  stem  and  bough  to  bough, 

To  catch  the  little  warbler's  form, 
To  see  what  shape  embodied  thus, 

And  made  suspense  so  fine  a  charm  ! 

I  gazed,  but  could  not  see.     The  music  thrilled 

Along  my  being's  inmost  strings. 
Till  melody  had  all  my  bosom  filled, 

And  overrun  its  secret  springs. 
The  tear  stood  trembling  in  my  eye,  and  hushed 

To  feeling's  pause  was  every  breath — 
The  tones  became  so  low,  that  I 

Half  deemed  them  warning  me  of  death. 

And  yet  there  was  no  dread — I  thought,  how  meet 
'Neath  such  a  dirge  to  sink  and  die  ! 

While  viewless  o'er  was  heard  that  harp,  how  sweet 

.    To  close  the  dim  and  fading  eye  ! 

Then  rose  the  lifted  voice  to  sudden  power, 
And  yet  not  harsh,  but  rich  and  deep 

As  is  the  feeling  of  the  soul 

When  mighty  thoughts  our  natures  sweep. 

9* 


[02  Poems. 

Ah  me,  \  were  vain  with  language  to  describe 

The  wild  sensations  of  my  breast ; 
Till  I  some  angel's  brightest  pen  can  bribe, 

That  spirit-thrill  must  be  supprest ! 
Still  floated  round  those  ever  changing  notes, 

Now  with  a  burst,  and  now  a  moan. 
And  once  I  thought  in  Northern  Land 

I'd  heard  and  treasured  such  a  tone  ! 

The  music  died  at  last,  as  sweetest  things 

Must  die  ! — and  homeward  I  returned. 
But  often  in  my  lonely  wanderings 

Once  more  to  hear  that  voice  I  yearned  ; 
Then  grieving  that  I  heard  it  not,  I  named 

It  in  the  soul  it  had  enthralled. 
And  ever  after  to  myself 

The  "Singing  Spirit"  it  was  called. 


Do  I  Love  Thee  P  103 


DO    I  LOVE    THEE? 

If  I  could  love  my  God  as  well, 

T  would  build  for  me  a  heavenly  throne 
But,  when  I  raise  my  eyes  to  Him, 

I  see  thy  own  sweet  form  alone ; 
And,  dreaming  of  the  harps  of  Heaven, 

I  hear  but  thy  melodious  tone. 

Thou  stealest  upon  me  silently. 
And  tak'st  possession  of  my  heart. 

And  ere  my  breast  can  question  aught, 
I  find  thee  of  myself  a  part — 

Commingling  with  my  blood  and  soul, 
My  own  life's  purer  life  thou  art ! 

Oft  in  yon  mountain's  woodiest  scene 
I  dream  of  some  sweet  spirit-bride, 
So  beautiful  in  mental  grace, 

She  seems  Creation's  joy  and  pride  ; 
And,  when  I  hear  her  footsteps  near, 
I  see  thy  image  by  my  side. 


04  Poems. 

Oh,  many  a  dream  I've  had,  sweet  one, 
And  thou  hast  been  the  living  light 

Which  still  hath  lit  my  fancy's  realm, 
And  beautified  the  lonely  night — 

The  night  whose  var}ing  shapes  assumed 
The  witching  smile  and  image  bright. 

At  times,  when  fever  pains  my  brow, 
A  fair-faced,  blue-eyed  angel  bends 

Above  my  tortured  form,  and  smiles 
So  sweetly  on  me  that  it  lends 

A  beauty  unto  pain,  and  makes 
Me  rank  disease  among  my  friends. 

How  have  I  thrilled,  as  to  my  lips 
Her  own  have  tenderly  been  prest, 

And  drank  the  life  of  her  warm  heart 
And  love  immortal  from  her  breast — 

But  drained  it  not,  for  still  it  rose 
A  fountain  pure  and  ever  blest 


A  Scene  along  the  Rio  dc  las  Plumas.         lOf 


A  SCENE  ALONG   THE  RIO  DE  LAS 
PL  UMA  S. 

With  solemn  step  I  trace 

A  dark  and  dismal  place, 

Where  moss  with  trailing  ends, 

From  heavy  boughs  depends  ; 

Where  day  resembles  night, 

And  birds  of  sullen  flight 

Pierce  darkness  with  their  screams ; 

Where  slow  and  sluggish  streams 

Crawl  through  the  sleeping  woods 

And  weird ful  solitudes. 

In  dreamy  languor  bound, 

Upon  their  slimy  breast 

The  lolling  lilies  rest, 

And  from  their  depths  profound 

Strange  things,  with  staring  eyes 

And  uncouth  limbs,  arise — 

A  moment  gaze  with  mute  surprise 

Then  sink  adown  like  lead, 

And  seek  their  oozy  bed. 


[o6  Poems. 

What  looks  a  spirit  there, 
Snow-white  upon  the  air, 
And  hov'ring  over  these 
Deep  pools  and  drooping  trees, 
As  if  some  heavenly  sprite 
Had  come  from  Day  to  Night, 
Is  but  the  crane  that  feeds, 
When  hungered  "mong  the  reeds  ; 
Or  sloughs,  flag-margined,  wades, 
Meandering  'neath  the  shades, 
And  makes  his  vulgar  dish 
Of  creeping  things  and  fish. 

Yon  ermined  owl  that  flits 
Through  dusky  leaves,  or  sits 
In  somber  silence  now 
On  yonder  ivyed  bough, 
And  looks  a  druid  priest — 
No  higher  thoughts  inspire 
Than  lowest  wants  require. 
As  how  to  make  his  feast. 
When  lurking  mouse  or  bird 
Hath  from  its  covert  stirred. 

Those  flaming  eyes  awake 
In  yonder  thorny  brake, 


A  Scene  along  the  Rio  de  las  Phimas.         107 

Which  dilate  as  I  pass, 
Illumining  the  grass 
And  lighting  darksome  ground, 
Are  not  from  that  profound, 
Where  cries  of  woe  resound 
And  Dante's  damned  abound, 
Nor  yet  the  wandering  ghouls, — 
The  dread  of  dead  mens  souls, — 
(Because  their  flesh  he  craves, 
And  digs  it  from  their  graves). 
But  orbs  of  sinuous  snake 
Who  from  the  neighboring  lake, 
Or  vapor-breeding  bog, 
His  victim  soon  shall  take — 
Some  luckless  dozing  frog. 
Nor  will  thy  lither  shape, 
Thou  rodent  sly  escape, 
If  once  thine  eye  hath  caught 
The  fire  within  that  head. 
From  venomed  sources  fed, 
\\'ith  fascination  fraught. 

I  reach  a  dimmer  nook. 

And  warily  I  look, 

For  where  yon  night-shades  grow 

And  baneful  blossoms  blow. 


io8  Poems. 

Beneath  the  toadstools,  well 
I  know  ill-creatures  dwell — 
Tarantula,  whose  bite 
Would  strongest  heart  affright : 
The  stinging  centipede, 
Whose  hundred-footed  speed, 
And  hundred  arm-ed  feet 
Bring  death  and  danger  tleet. 
That,  with  Briarean  clasp. 
The  fated  victim  grasp. 
And  scorpion,  single-stinged, 
Fabled  erst  as  winged, 
And  still  reported  wide, 
If  pressed,  a  suicide. 

And  here  I  see — but  lo  ! 

1  can  no  further  go. 

For  what 's  this  hum  1  hear 

Which  fills  the  atmosphere, 

And  drums  the  tingling  ear 

Till,  half  distraught,  I  reel? 

I  heard,  but  now  I  feel  I 

Good  sakes,  what  winged  forms 

Wiiat  singing,  dizzing  swarms  I 

Ten  thousand  needles  flamed 

Could  not  with  them  be  named. 


The  Still  Small  Voice.  109 


THE    STILL    SMALL     VOICE. 

Alas,  how  ever)'  thing  will  borrow 
Hues,  tones,  and  bitterness  from  sorrow  ! 
If  evening  comes  with  softened  ray 
To  close  the  eye  of  dying  day  ; 
If  morning  ushers  in  the  morrow 
With  dew-drops  sprinkled  on  its  way, 
T  is  all  the  same  :  a  voice  is  whispering  from  the 

Past— 
'  *  Too  late  !   too  late  !   the  doom  is  set,  the  die  is 
cast ! ' ' 

If  through  the  woods  my  footsteps  roam. 
Where  always  they  do  feel  at  home. 
And  wandering  leisurely  I  trace 
Each  streamlet  to  its  rising  place, 
To  hear  its  music,  see  its  foam, 

No  tide  of  sound,  no  shape  of  grace 
Can  hush  that  solemn  voice,  that  whispering  from  the 

Past— 
"Too  late!  too  late!    the  doom  is  set,   the  die  is 
cast ! ' ' 


no  Poems. 

If  o'er  some  well-loved  page  I  bend 
In  converse  deep  as  with  a  friend 
Whose  kindly  tones  I  love  to  hear, 
That  lowly  sound  will  reach  my  ear, 
And  sadly  with  my  feelings  blend 
As  sigh  with  sigh  and  tear  with  tear  ! 
The  mighty  thoughts  I  read  all  fade  before  the  Past, 
Which  cries  "too  late  !  the  doom  is  set,  the  die  is 
cast !  " 

Oh,  never  hushed  that  voice  will  be  I 
As  sadly  as  the  mournful  sea, 

Where  savage  silent  shores  it  laves. 
And  darkness  dwells  upon  its  waves. 
Do  sound  its  low-breathed  tones  to  me  ! 
The  peace  my  bosom  often  craves. 
Will  linger  but  a  moment's  space — it  flies  the  Past, 
Whose  voice  yet  cries  "the  doom  is  set,  the  die  is 
cast !  ' ' 

A  raven-thought  is  darkly  set 

Upon  my  brow — where  shades  are  met 

Of  grief,  of  pain,  of  toil,  and  care — 

The  raven-thought  of  stern  despair  ! 

Oh,  wherefore  arc  my  eyelids  wet, 

While  birds  make  music  on  the  air  ? 


Eyes.  1 1 1 

No  ear  but  mine  can  catch  the  breathings  of  the  Past, 
"Too  late!  too  late!  the  doom  is  set,   the  die  is 
cast ! ' ' 

Adieu,  sweet  scenes  of  other  days  ; 
Ye  sleep  within  the  past,  like  rays 
Of  moonlight  on  a  silent  lake. 
T  is  not  within  my  power  to  wake 
Your  slumbers  with  these  feeble  lays  ; 
I  can  but  feel  my  bosom  quake 
To  hear  the  low  but  awful  fiat  of  the  Past — 
"Too  late!   too  late  !  the  doom  is  set,  the  die  is 
cast  ! ' ' 


EYES. 

I  SING  of  eyes,  of  woman's  eyes, 
A  theme  from  earliest  ages  sung. 

But  which,  till  all  of  nature  dies. 
Shall  ever  bid  the  harp  be  strung. 

There  is  the  eye  of  sober  gray. 

Which  seems  to  shadow  forth  regret. 


112  Poems. 

As  if  the  spirit  mourned  alway 
Its  Starr)'  hopes  forever  set. 

There  is  the  eye  of  hazel  bright, 

Which  wins  and  dazzles  where  it  falls, 

Reviving  with  its  showers  of  light 
The  happy  bosom  it  enthralls. 

There  is  the  eye  of  tender  blue, 
Soft  as  the  heaven  at  set  of  sun. 

Which  many  deem  is  ever  true, 

And  smiles  on  all  but  speaks  to  one. 

There  is  the  eye  of  darker  hue. 

Which  rivals  Midnight  on  her  throne  ; 

Now  softly  bright  as  streams  that  through 
The  shady  forests  wander  lone  ; 

Now  like  a  cloud  that  hides  from  sight 
The  beauty  of  the  rolling  spheres. 

And  flashes  far  with  angry  light. 

Or  sinking  downwards  melts  to  tears. 

As  sages  loved  in  ancient  days 

To  read  the  heavens  when  darkness  fell, 

So  on  those  orbs  of  black  we  gaze, 
And  feci  our  inmost  bosoms  swell. 


Eyes. 

As  lovely  as  the  worlds  that  lie 
Reposing  in  the  Night's  embrace, 

Is  the  soft  meaning  of  that  eye, 

And  deeper  than  the  depths  of  space  ! 

I  cease — for  all  description 's  vain  ; 

Let  each  one  choose  the  eye  he  likes, 
That  melts  the  heart  or  soothes  the  brain, 

Or  like  the  dreaded  lightning  strikes  ; 

But  as  for  me,  I  love  those  eyes. 
No  matter  what  their  hues  may  be, 

To  which  the  heart's  warm  feelings  rise 
In  overflowing  love  to  me. 

Alternate  fount  of  light  and  tears, 

Their  smiles  are  sweet,  their  sadness  too, 

And  I  could  joy  or  grieve  for  years. 
As  those  fond  eyes  might  bid  me  do  ! 

10* 


114  Poems. 


POEM.* 

Hail  to  the  Plow  !  for  naught  shall  take  its  place, 

The  first,  great  civil izer  of  the  race ! 

Still  honored  by  the  wisest  and  the  best 

In  eveiy  age  where'er  its  power  has  blest ! 

For  long  before  the  Mantuan  bard  had  sung 

His  Georgics  in  the  grand  old  Roman  tongue, 

Or  deified  Triptolemus,  revealed 

The  mysteries  in  Ceres'  breast  concealed  ; 

Or  Egypt's  kings  their  pyramids  upreared, 

To  brave  old  Time  and  dark  Oblivion  feared  ; 

Or  e'er  old  China's  wall  stupendous  rose 

Long  ages  since,  'gainst  barbarous  Tartar  foes  ; 

Or  e'er  the  Parsee  worshiper  of  fire 

His  altars  lit  where  Elbrooz  heights  aspire  ; 

Or  Afric  Carthage  built  grim  IMoloch's  throne. 

Or  Ninevah  arose,  or  Babylon, 

The  plow,  presager  of  the  Arts,  was  known  ! 


*  Delivered  before  the  Agricultural,  Horticultural,  and  Mechanics'  Society 
of  the  Northern  District  of  California,  on  Wednesday  Evening,  August  5th, 
i860. 


Poem.  1 1 5 

Though  rude  of  form,  yet  in  its  furrowed  track 
Fair  Plenty  trode  and  paid  swart  Labor  back 
Ten-fold  his  toil ;  for  in  those  days,  as  now, 
The  Earth  was  kind  to  him  who  drave  the  plow. 

With  Argriculture  sprang  whate'er  in  Art 
Has  raised  the  mind  or  purified  the  heart — 
Whate'er  in  Science  hath  exalted  man 
And  glorified  him  since  the  world  began  ; 
And  still  to  Agriculture  do  we  trace 
The  first  faint  gleam  of  progress  in  the  race. 

The  Nations  justly  vaunted  now  and  great — 
Old  days  beheld  them  in  the  hunter  state, 
When  clad  in  skins,  and  quivers  on  their  backs. 
They  followed  on  the  wild  deer's  bounding  tracks  ; 
Or  sought,  through  wood  and  brake  and  fen, 
The  fierce  and  gnashing  boar  within  his  den  ; 
Or  earned  a  slim  subsistence  by  the  shore 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  with  their  scaly  store. 
Tanned  by  the  sun  and  dew,  their  beaten  forms 
Still  harder  fared  in  wintr}^  winds  and  storms  ; 
Nor  homes  had  they  save  where  they  nightly  found 
Chance  lodging  on  the  bare,  ungrateful  ground. 
Small  share  was  here,  I  ween,  of  luxur}-. 
Nor  downy  couch,  nor  cushioned  seat  had  they — 


1 1 6  Poems. 

Smile  not — such  were  our  own  rude  ancestry  ! 
Next  came  the  pastoral  days,  when  men  less  roved, 
But  pitched  their  camps  by  pleasant  springs,  nor 

moved 
Till  pastures  failed  or  rival  flocks  their  bounds 
Did  press,  intrusive  on  their  chosen  grounds. 
Still  't  was  a  roving  life,  surrounded  too 
By  foes  and  daily  dangers  not  a  few, 
For  force  'gainst  force  those  days  prevailed,  and  laws 
Were  none,  and  each  man's  arm  made  good  his 
cause. 

But  came  in  turn  the  third  and  better  state, 
With  cheering  omens  of  a  higher  fate. 
Then,  did  the  restless  Nomad  cease  to  roam — 
His  hardships  o'er,  he  found  at  last  his  home. 
From  year  to  year  he  still  improved  his  land, 
Till  beautiful  it  grew  beneath  his  hand, 
And  laden  vine  and  bleating  flocks  increase. 
And  waving  fields  gave  all  his  days  to  peace. 
Few  fears  alarmed  him,  for  he  knew  the  soil 
Would  aye  repay  with  generous  yield  his  toil. 
Around  him  grew,  with  hope  and  joy  elate, 
His  children  fair  that  crowned  his  blest  estate. 
And  near  him  soon  new  fields  and  cots  were  seen 


Poem.  ] 

Where  late  the  brooding  wilderness  had  been  ; 
Then  grew  up  mutual  interests  and  needs, 
And  all  that  such  community  succeeds. 
Against  the  still  untamed  and  savage  man 
The  armed  alliance  of  the  few  began  ; 
And  soon  Society  on  mutual  wants  arose, 
With  peace  at  home  and  guards  against  its  foes. 
New  wants  still  with  the  social  fabric  grew, 
And  needful  laws  as  complicate  as  new. 
Thus  government  was  formed,  and  ever}-  man 
Was  safe  and  happy  in  the  general  plan. 
Secure  in  property  and  life,  each  wrought 
In  his  own  way  and  ends  congenial  sought. 
Thus  fixed  in  homes,  could  be  no  spoiler's  prey, 
Each  gave  his  sep'rate  faculties  free  play  ; 
And  soon  Invention  various  needs  supplied 
And  luxuries  to  hardier  times  denied. 
Meantime  like  states  in  other  lands  had  grown, 
With  laws,  inventions,  products  of  their  own. 
What  lacked  one  clime  another  clime  possest. 
And  each  could  still  contribute  to  the  rest. 
Thus  Commerce  rose,  and,  stimulating  art, 
Gave  impulse  to  Invention  and  new  start 
To  all  improvements  that  a  Nation  raise 
And  make  a  people's  glor}-,  wealth  and  praise. 


ii8  Poems. 

Upgrew  from  rude  beginnings  like  to  these 
Those  states  renowned  along  the  Tuscan  seas, 
And  she  who  sat  by  Tiber's  yellow  tide 
In  pomp  of  riches  and  imperial  pride. 
Thus  sprang  those  capitals  of  Eastern  lands, 
Long  buried  in  the  desert's  shifting  sands, 
Whose  fallen,  rescued  monuments  avow, 
In  sculptured  yoke  and  hieroglyphic  plow, 
Their  debt  to  agricultural  toil.     They  fell — 
As  fell  the  grand  old  Rome — because  too  well 
They  loved  the  bannered  pomp  of  conquering  war. 
Neglecting  arts  of  peace  more  glorious  far. 
While  fought  the  soldier  at  a  despot's  will. 
The  rusting  plow  within  the  field  stood  still, 
And  hosts,  returning  from  a  vanquished  land. 
Spread  vice  and  luxur)'  on  every  hand. 
For  every  soldier  on  the  tented  plain 
One  less  to  prune  the  vine  and  sow  the  grain — 
And  armies  counted  by  the  million  leave 
Broad  fields  to  waste  that  years  will  not  retrieve. 

As  on  the  other  continent  on  this 
With  Agriculture  came  true  happiness, 
And  man  advanced  by  sure  and  slow  degrees 
From  savage  toil  and  strife  to  rest  and  ease. 


Poem.  119 

As  England  was  in  Alfred's  time  (The  Great), 

So  civilized  was  Montezuma's  state, 

And  burning  bright  his  fair  and  peaceful  star, 

When  Cortez  came  with  red  right  hand  of  war. 

Let  truth  impartial  say,  if  happier  now 

Is  that  historic  land,  broad  IMexico, 

Than  when  all  greenly  spread  the  cultured  plain, 

And  waved  the  far  Cordilleras  with  grain, 

And  rolled  the  deep  canals,  with  streams  that  blest 

A  thousand  homes  in  Eden  beauty  drest. 

And  all  the  realm  from  mountain  slope  to  main. 

Was  fair  IMontezuma's  golden  reign  ? 

Was  art,  that  built  those  cities  vast,  less  art. 

Because  of  Aztec  genius  't  was  a  part  ? 

Was  patient  toil,  that  led  thro'  channels  deep, 

And  aqueducts,  and  'long  the  rocky  steep. 

The  streams  a  thousand  fertile  fields  supplied, 

Less  toil,  because  no  white  man's  arm  was  tried  ? 

Were  peace  and  plenty  but  the  Spaniard's  right  ? 

The  Aztec  barbarous  because  not  white  ? 

As  much  and  more  the  arts  of  peace  had  done 
For  Peru's  realm, — soft  children  of  the  Sun. 
For,  long  before  the  white  man's  foot  had  pressed, 
Or  north  or  south,  the  Cont'nent  of  the  West, 


1 20  Poems. 

The  Inca's  sway  had  civilized  Peru — 
A  land  as  happy  as  the  world  e'er  knew ! 
T  was  not  her  temples  blazing  rich  with  gold, 
And  showering  light  from  starr}-  gems  untold  ; 
Her  palaces  of  gorgeous  pomp  and  pride, 
Where  sat  her  rich-robed  Incas  deified  ; 
Her  golden  statues  and  her  carvings  rare 
Of  bird  and  reptile  on  the  burnished  ware, 
That  made  the  glor}-  of  her  tranquil  state, 
And  almost  won  for  her  the  tide  * '  great ' ' ! 
It  was  her  hojnes,  by  many  a  winding  rill, 
By  rivers  wide,  in  vale,  on  terraced  hill, 
Where  grew  the  waving  corn,  or  wand'ring  fed 
The  fleecy  flocks  by  watchful  shepherds  led  ; 
Her  pleasant  cots,  where  sheltered  from  the  sun. 
Peruvian  wives  and  damsels  sat  and  spun, 
Or  wove  their  plumaged  pictures — from  the  wings 
Of  tropic  birds — of  rare  and  beauteous  things. 
Or  through  the  loom's  ingenious  workings  fast 
The  Alpacca's  fleece  with  skillful  fingers  passed. 
Let  paler  nations  vaunt  themselves  and  praise 
Their  slow  advancement  from  the  savage  days  ; 
If  government  is  wisest  that 's  designed 
For  good  of  greatest  number  of  the  kind, 
Methinks  no  just  philosophy  will  scan 


Poem. 

With  scornful  eyes  the  Peru  Indian's  plan — 
A  policy  which  gave  with  equal  hand 
To  each  his  due  proportion  of  the  land, 
And  each  his  share  of  what  the  general  toil 
Produced  from  manufacture  or  the  soil. 
As  labor  was  enjoined  on  all,  so  none 
Could  suffer  when  the  seasoned  work  was  done. 
As  all,  too,  labored  duly  for  the  State, 
If  sickness  fell  or  any  evil  fate. 
The  State  provided,  not  as  charity 
But  right,  for  him  whose  former  industr}-. 
Still  looking  to  the  common  weal  in  this. 
Had  swelled  her  coffers  and  her  granaries. 
In  all  the  realm  no  subject  could  be  poor, 
But  peace  and  plenty  sat  at  each  man's  door. 
No  happier  lot  the  poet's  dream  can  find, 
Nor  Art  nor  Science  reach  for  human  kind  ; 
Not  all  the  Old  World's  civilization  vast, 
Nor  yet  our  own,  the  grandest  and  the  last, 
To  that  one  culminating  point  has  come — 
To  give  each  man  a  competence  and  home. 

Thus  in  her  own  rude  way  our  muse  has  shown 
How  man  in  all  that  blesses  him  has  grown 
With  Agriculture  and  the  arts  of  peace, 


1 20  Poems. 

The  Inca's  sway  had  civiHzed  Peru — 
A  land  as  happy  as  the  world  e'er  knew ! 
T  was  not  her  temples  blazing  rich  with  gold, 
And  showering  light  from  starr}-  gems  untold  ; 
Her  palaces  of  gorgeous  pomp  and  pride, 
Where  sat  her  rich-robed  Incas  deified  ; 
Her  golden  statues  and  her  earnings  rare 
Of  bird  and  reptile  on  the  burnished  ware, 
That  made  the  glon-  of  her  tranquil  state. 
And  almost  won  for  her  the  title  ' '  great ' ' ! 
It  was  her  homes,  by  many  a  winding  rill, 
By  rivers  wide,  in  vale,  on  terraced  hill, 
Where  grew  the  waving  corn,  or  wand'ring  fed 
The  fleecy  flocks  by  watchful  shepherds  led  ; 
Her  pleasant  cots,  where  sheltered  from  the  sun, 
Peruvian  wives  and  damsels  sat  and  spun, 
Or  wove  their  plumaged  pictures — from  the  wings 
Of  tropic  birds — of  rare  and  beauteous  things. 
Or  through  the  loom's  ingenious  workings  fast 
The  Alpacca's  fleece  with  skillful  fingers  passed. 
Let  paler  nations  vaunt  themselves  and  praise 
Their  slow  advancement  from  the  savage  days  ; 
If  government  is  wisest  that 's  designed 
For  good  of  greatest  number  of  the  kind, 
INIethinks  no  just  philosophy  will  scan 


Poem.  1 2 1 

With  scornful  eyes  the  Peru  Indian's  plan — 
A  policy  which  gave  with  equal  hand 
To  each  his  due  proportion  of  the  land, 
And  each  his  share  of  what  the  general  toil 
Produced  from  manufacture  or  the  soil. 
As  labor  was  enjoined  on  all,  so  none 
Could  suffer  when  the  seasoned  work  was  done. 
As  all,  too,  labored  duly  for  the  State, 
If  sickness  fell  or  any  evil  fate, 
The  State  provided,  not  as  charity 
But  right,  for  him  whose  former  industr}', 
Still  looking  to  the  common  weal  in  this, 
Had  swelled  her  coffers  and  her  granaries. 
In  all  the  realm  no  subject  could  be  poor, 
But  peace  and  plenty  sat  at  each  man's  door. 
No  happier  lot  the  poet's  dream  can  find, 
Nor  Art  nor  Science  reach  for  human  kind  ; 
Not  all  the  Old  World's  civilization  vast. 
Nor  yet  our  own,  the  grandest  and  the  last, 
To  that  one  culminating  point  has  come— 
To  give  each  man  a  competence  and  home.. 

Thus  in  her  own  rude  way  our  muse  has  shown 
How  man  in  all  that  blesses  him  has  grown 
With  Agriculture  and  the  arts  of  peace. 


122  Poems. 

And  how  with  tliem  these  blessings  still  increase — 
The  mind  and  heart  still  growing  with  the  growth 
Of  that  which  first  gave  training  unto  both. 
For  while  the  genius  of  the  plow  and  spade 
Improvement  still  on  willing  nature  made — 
The  cultured  flower  expanding  into  size 
Unknown  before  and  tinct  with  richer  dyes, 
New  forms  assuming  from  the  fecund  dust 
Not  left  to  chance  and  to  the  zephyr's  trust, 
But,  like  with  unlike  pollen  mixed,  till  strange 
Creations  bloomed  and  wonder  marked  the  change 
The  human  soul,  the  INIan,  expanded  too. 
And  found  in  realms  of  thought  the  strange  and  new, 

A  pleasant  task  were  our's,  could  we  so  grace 

Our  pen,  the  history  of  the  plow  to  trace — 

Its  allied  helps  of  Science  and  the  Arts, 

And  all  that  to  its  reign  new  strength  imparts  ; 

How  in  the  Roman  and  the  Grecian  sway 

It  made  the  glor}-  of  their  proudest  day  ; 

How  it  for  ages  knew  but  small  regard. 

When  warriors  fought  and  sang  the  warrior  bard  ; 

How  after  times  sought  knowledge  that  was  hid 

In  monkish  cells  the  mountain  rocks  amid, 

And  drew  from  monasterial  lore  and  skill 


Poem.  123 

The  ancient  art  the  fruitful  earth  to  till  ; 

How  pruning,  grafting  came  ;  how  science  found 

New  modes  to  fertilize  the  failing  ground — 

Ammonia's  properties,  the  silicates. 

The  strength  of  guano,  phosphates,  and  their  mates. 

And  whatsoever  else  may  give  the  earth 

Its  fecund  power  and  swelling  joy  of  birth  ; 

And  how  Improvement  with  the  years  kept  pace. 

And  Agriculture  blest  the  human  race. 

But  now  we  turn,  a  not  ungrateful  theme, 
To  realize  the  El  Dorado  dream 
In  that  one  land  which  all  that  dream  fulfills — 
The  land  whose  name  the  world's  heart  thrills — 
Our  own  unequaled.  Golden  State  !  the  clime 
Of  wonder,  cynosure  of  modem  time  ! 
What  silver  word,  what  golden  line  can  say 
The  half  its  worth,  its  matchless  wealth  portray  ? 
If  soars  the  muse  along  her  mountain  chains 
Where  Grandeur,   snow-crowned,   rocky-girdled 

reigns  ; 
Or  glides  adown  her  golden-sanded  streams  ; 
Or  with  the  miner  plunges  deep  where  gleams, 
Mysterious  in  the  hill's  eternal  night. 
The  ore  revealed  by  dimly-flickering  light ; 


1 2  4  Poems. 

Or  seeks  along  the  barren,  ghostly  coast, 

The  caverned  realms  where,  in  black  basins  tost, 

The  springs  of  bitumen  boil  up  to  sight ; 

Or  wings  to  Napa's  weirdful  land  her  flight. 

Where,  bursting  forth  from  many  a  fissured  rock, 

With  hot  but  healing  breath  and  angry  shock, 

The  imprisoned  demon  of  the  earth  makes  known 

His  fearful  presence  in  the  under-zone  ; 

Or  penetrates  where  Labor  seeks  its  gains 

In  Santa  Clara's  quick,  mercurial  veins ; 

Or  Shasta's  treasure-laden  ground  explores, 

Her  springs  of  salt,  her  marble,  and  her  ores ; 

Or  scans  in  Calaveras"  mammoth  pride 

The  trunks  three  thousand  winters  have  defied, 

Where'er  in  all  this  sunset-land  she  flies. 

New  signs,  new  wonders  meet  her  maz-ed  eyes. 

But  California's  glorj'  is  not  told 
By  wealth  of  resource  like  to  this — her  gold. 
Her  hidden  riches  in  the  earth,  her  stores 
Of  precious  undeveloped  things,  her  ores. 
Her  quarries  vast,  her  springs  medicinal — 
Beyond  all  these  and  far  surpassing  all 
Akin  to  these,  her  Agriculture  stands. 
The  pride  of  earili,  the  envy  of  all  lands ! 


Poem.  1 2  5 

Prolific  soil !  within  itself  it  yields 

Of  every  clime  the  fruits.     Its  smiling  fields 

The  tasseled  maize  affords  ;  the  waving  wheat, 

Hemp,  rice  ;  the  jointed  cane  with  essence  sweet ; 

The  many-seeded  fig  ;  its  tropic  mate  ; 

The  oily  olive,  tamarind,  and  date  ; 

The  pear  and  peach  ;  the  grape,  as  rare  and  fine 

In  all  that  gilds  the  immemorial  vine. 

As  ever  grew  in  shepherd  days  of  peace. 

In  native  beauty  on  the  hills  of  Greece — 

Or  wild  in  woods  that  skirt  the  Arabian  sea 

The  wandering  savage  fed  with  bounty  free — 

Or  in  Italia's  purpled  vales  did  hang 

To  lips  as  ripe,  that  Horace  kissed  and  sang. 

Here  grow  those  garden  monsters  that  surprise 

Like  miracles  our  scarce-believing  eyes, 

Reminding  us  of  that  Titanic  age 

Recorded  in  the  geologic  page. 

When  shrubs  were  trees,  and  plants  that  now  in 

lines 

Our  gardens  green,  had  dwarfed  Norwegian  pines. 

Of  that  same  soil,  which  thus  prolific  threw 

Those  giants  forth,  when  yet  the  world  was  new. 

Our  soil  partakes.     And  thus  we  leave  behind 

All  climes  and  lands,  and  wonder-strike  mankind. 
11* 


126  Poems. 

Fair  Land  !  but  fairer  yet  shall  be — for  still 
Shall  Industry  her  hills  and  valleys  till, 
And  Agriculture  write  on  many  a  spot 
Her  name  in  verdure,  where  before  't  was  not. 
As  Franklin  his,  when  wondering  rustics  saw 
A  miracle  in  Nature's  simplest  law. 

'T  is  Irrigation,  wondrous  art,  though  old, 
With  aids  of  modern  science  manifold, 
Shall  work  the  magic  change  we  yet  shall  see, 
When  all  the  desert  lands  shall  cultured  be  ; 
When  from  the  Sacramento's  margin  green. 
Or  tule  borders  of  the  San  Joaquin, 
To  eastern  peaks,  whose  curving  line  of  snow 
Like  some  white  arm  of  beauty  all  aglow 
With  love,  enwreaths  the  nestling  hills  below ; 
From  yonder  western  slopes  that  lave 
Their  feet  within  the  blue  Pacific's  wave 
To  woods  infringing  on  the  arid  plain 
That  heated  ripples  to  the  mountain  chain  ; 
From  Northern  heights  of  rugged  Siski}  ou 
Whose  vales  abysmal  hide  from  view. 
To  where  the  smoothly  shaven  waters  ply 
In  sheltered  San  Diego's  tranquil  bay. 
The  land  shall  blossom  with  its  edens  fair, 


Poem.  127 

The  fruitful  hills  make  fragrant  all  the  air, 
And  breezy  valleys  wave  their  yellow  hair. 
For,  mark  you,  Art,  with  Science  aid,  shall  make 
Spots  fertile  which  the  ignorant  forsake  ; 
And  all  that  wear}^  waste  of  hazy  heat, 
O'er  which  the  heron's  lonely  wing  doth  beat 
In  effort  vain  some  moistured  spot  to  find 
Shall  prove  to  man's  enlightened  labor  kind. 
The  hidden  fountains  of  the  earth  shall  rise. 
And  mock  with  coolness  all  the  brazen  skies ; 
The  piercing  steel  shall  strike  the  secret  vein 
That,  bursting  forth,  shall  fertilize  the  plain. 
And  soon  where  late  no  blade  or  leaf  was  seen 
Shall  orchards  bloom  and  waving  fields  be  green. 
Oh  Land  of  Beauty  !  why  the  theme  prolong } 
Like  that  delicious  isle  of  Indian  song. 
Which,  o'er  the  waters  gliding,  fled  pursuit, 
Thou  hast  all  gems,  all  wealth,  all  golden  fruit. 
And,  far  more  blest  than  Indian  dreamers  were. 
We  lose  thee  not,  a  vision  of  the  air  ! 


128  Poems. 


THE  ARKANSAW  ROOT  DOCTORS 

On  Osage  Creek,  in  Arkansaw,  amid 
The  wild-browed  hills  there  stands  a  cabid  hid  ; 
The  boards  are  shattered  badly  on  the  roof, 
And  when  it  rains  it  is  not  water-proof; 
The  wooden  chimney  totters  to  one  side, 
As  though  a  posture  straight  it  did  deride  ; 
The  puncheon  floor 's  uneven  and  so  rough 
A  naked  foot  to  stand  it  should  be  tough  ; 
The  door  upon  its  hinge  half  hangs,  and  creaks 
Most  dolefully  when  shut ! 

Close  by  there  breaks 
From  out  a  gently  rising  hill  so  pure 
A  stream,  some  madness  of  the  brain  't  would  cure  ; 
Below  't  through  which  this  pure  stream  runs,  a  lot 
There  is,  fenced  round — a  green  and  grassy  spot, 
Whose  verdure  's  all  the  nourishment  that  grows 
For  one  old  horse,  who  well  that  pasture  knows. 
Through  many  a  long  and  slowly  rolling  year 

*  A  true  sketch. 


The  Arkansaw  Root  Doctor.  129 

That  old  gray  horse  has  fed,  a  musard  here ! 

Bereft  of  sight,  he  seems  reflecting  sad 

On  all  the  joys  his  buoyant  colt-hood  had  ; 

But,  like  some  stoic,  weather-beaten  sage. 

He  seems  resigned  to  all  the  griefs  of  age  ! 

His  owner  dwells  within  that  cabin  rude, 

A  man  of  forty,  fond  of  solitude. 

From  manhood's  earliest  years  his  searching  mind 

Has  striven  hard  a  secret  truth  to  find  ; 

The  face  of  herbal  nature  he  's  perused. 

On  all  the  properties  of  plants  has  mused  ; 

No  mountain  's  been  too  savage  or  too  high 

For  him — he'd  scale  it,  if  it  touched  the  sky  ! 

No  glen  has  been  too  dark — his  pr}'ing  look, 

That 's  ever  keen,  will  no  denial  brook, 

When  searching  for  that  herb,  whose  root  shall  save 

The  well  from  pain,  the  dying  from  the  grave  ! 

A  noble  work  on  earth  he  dreams  is  his  : 

To  find  the  source,  the  root  of  happiness  ! 

The  lore  of  letters  he  has  never  known — 

He  claims  the  book  of  ''natur"  as  his  own  ! 

He  deems  the  knowledge  which  is  learned  in  schools 

But  fitted  for  a  polished  pack  of  fools ; 

His  mind  ne'er  soars  above  the  ground  ;  the  earth 

Contains  beneath  its  surface  all  that 's  worth, 


130  Poems. 

In  his  idea,  the  search  of  man.      Poor  fool ! 
He 's  wise  because  he  never  went  to  school ! 

In  searching  for  the  healing  root  desired, 
He 's  found  some  other  ones  for  health  required, 
And,  having  in  slight  mixing  with  his  kind, 
Revealed  by  chance  the  treasures  of  his  mind, 
His  neighbors  onewhile  kept  him  much  engaged — 
For  fevers  dread  on  Osage  frequent  raged. 
On  's  old  gray  horse,  the  country  up  and  down. 
Was  seen  each  day  the  noted  Doctor  Brown ; 
A  bunch  of  roots  was  to  his  saddle  tied. 
Another  bundle  hanging  at  his  side  ; 
He  ministered,  with  tender  hand  and  care, 
To  those  who  pale  on  life's  last  limits  were  ; 
He  smoothed  the  pillow  for  the  feverish  head — 
He  bathed — he  purged — he  sweated — and  he  bled  ! 
But  Death  forever  triumphed  o'er  his  art. 
And  left  the  good,  kind  doctor  sick  at  heart. 
So  frequent  did  the  deaths  become  where  he 
Was  sent,  himself  became  a  Malady  ; 
And  when  the  good  Root-finder  came  to  save, 
He  seemed  to  patients.  Herald  of  the  Grave  ! 
At  last  no  one  in  Dr.  Brown  believed — 
Much  wronged  by  men's  opinions  he  conceived 


The  Arkansaw  Root  Doctor.  1 3 1 

Himself,  and  from  that  day,  henceforth,  retired 
To  find  the  long-sought  root  so  much  desired. 

One  faithful  pupil  has  he,  named  Bill  Skid, 
Who  tracks  him  everj'where  and  does  as  bid  ; 
These  two  (and  that  old  horse  to  bear  the  roots), 
Not  caring  for  the  busy  world  and  its  pursuits, 
Each  day  are  traveling  o'er  the  hills  around, 
With  anxious  gaze  bent  down  upon  the  ground, 
Intent  to  see  some  leaf  of  different  size 
Or  hue,  reveal  itself  unto  their  eyes. 
They  stop  at  intervals,  and  dig  amain — 
Then  breaks  the  Doctor  into  raptured  strain, 
Describing  to  Bill  Skid's  wondering  soul 
The  mighty  mystery  of  art  : 

' '  The  whole 
Secret  of  medicine  is  this — to  sweat. 
If  in  our  sarching  we  kin  get 
A  yarb  that  '11  do  this  bizness,  Bill, 
No  sickness  know'd  of  then  will  kill ! 
The  reason  so  many  people  dies, 
Is  caze  the  Doctors  tells  them  lies — 
If  they'd  tell  'em  to  always  sweat 
As  much  as  they  kin,  and  to  eat 
Nothing  that  '11  hander  it,  folks  would 


132  Poems. 

Live  as  long  agin  !     It 's  so  good 

To  sweat,  I'd  advise  you  to  let 

No  chance  pass.     To  live  long  jist  sweat." 

One  day  in  their  accustomed  rounds  they  came 
Upon  a  plant  with  blossom  red  as  flame — 
They  hailed  it  with  delight — ^both  held  their  hands 
In  silence  for  awhile — Bill  waits  commands — 
The  Doctor  bade  him  dig.      He  dug.     The  root 
Was  large,  and  of  a  color  brown  as  soot  ; 
"Taste  it,  Bill,"  says  Dr.  Brown;  "God  !  no,"  says 

Bill, 
"  I'm  feered  it  mought  have  the  defect  to  kill. — 
Lessen  you  had  yer  Low-Billy  along.? " 
"  I  ve  got  it. ' '  They  both  taste.   The  root  was  strong 
And  bitter  as  could  be.    Directly,  pains 
Began  to  seize  them — rueful  throes  and  strains  ! 
The  doctor  searched  his  pockets  for  the  vial 
Of  Lobelia  which  he  kept  for  the  trial 
Of  experiments  with  herbs — but  't  was  gone  ! 
At  this  discovery  both  were  headlong  thrown — 
They  fell  upon  the  ground  in  agony, 
Each  cr}ing  lustily  :    "Oh  God  !  "    "  Oh  me  !  " 
The  med'cine  worked  them  savagely.     One  hour 
They  rolled  upon  the  hill-side — still  with  power 


The  Arkansaw  Root  Doctor.  133 

The  root  was  operating,  and  no  peace 

To  Dr.  Brown  and  Skid  !     It  would  not  cease, 

But  kept  their  stomachs  in  ferment  extreme, 

As  though  they  were  hot  engines  full  of  steam; 

Until,  exhausted  with  the  torment,  they 

All  motionless,  outstretched,  at  full  length  lay  ! 

When  they  uprose  at  last,  they  both  were  white 

As  is  a  sheeted  ghost  late  in  the  night  ; 

Their  limbs  were  trembling ;  downward  rolled  the 

sweat  ; 
Says  Bill,  ''Well,  that's  the  toughest  med'cine  yet ! ' ' 
' '  God  !  yes, ' '  replied  the  doctor,  panting  loud, 
"The  sweat  rolls  down  like  water  from  a  cloud — 
I  b'lieve  in  this — this  is  the  yarb  at  last  ! 
A  root  that  sweats  a  fellow  so  d — d  fast 
Must  be  the  one  I  'm  sarching  for  !     Hoo-ray  ! 
The  greatest  yarb  on  airth  I  've  found  to-day  ! ' ' 

And  now  these  students  of  the  healing  art 
Are  seen  each  morn  at  dawn  of  day  to  start, 
W^ith  their  old,  gray  horse,  into  the  woods  ; 
Take  good  care  to  have  Lobelia  stowed  awa}- 
In  deer-skin  saddle-bags,  lest  once  again 
Some  bold  experiment  may  cause  them  pain  ; 
They  gather  in  particular  the  herb 


136  Poems. 

Of  thy  life  and  thy  fortunes — I  '11  read  them  to-night 
Ah,  well  do  I  see  in  the  horoscoped  years 
The  shadows  of  sorrows,  the  traces  of  tears  ! 
What  then  ?     Is  the  story  so  soon  to  be  told — 
A  life  of  brief  date,  with  its  griefs  manifold  ! 

Not  so,  for  I  view  in  this  mystical  sign, 

Refigured  the  joys  on  the  pathway  to  shine. 

As  the  mists  of  the  morning,  low  draping  the  hills, 

Thy  tears  shall  be  transient,  as  transient  their  ills. 

Adown  a  long  path  of  the  fortunate  years, 

What  form  do  I  see  which  so  lovely  appears } 

Like  thine,  if  to  womanhood  regally  grown. 

A  vision  of  beauty,  but  she  walks  not  alone  ! 

Erect  in  his  manhood,  of  manhood  the  pride, 

A  being  to  worship  behold  at  her  side. 

His  smile  is  the  sunshine  that  brightens  her  brow, 

Her  bosom  with  blisses  is  rich  and  aglow. 

Nuw  fade  they  in  dimness  of  distance  to  sight, 

But  the  path  still  before  them  is  beaming  with  light. 

And  now  the}-  are  swallowed  in  radiance  new-born, 

Like  l>irds  that  are  lost  in  the  c:old  of  the  morn. 


Random  Thoughts  of  He)'.  1 3  7 


RANDOM  THOUGHTS   OF  HER. 

I  GAZE  into  her  eyes — their  tender  hght, 
And  strong,  illumes  my  spirit's  darkest  night, 
And  pours  rich  glory  on  me  as  a  star 
Which  brings  its  silver  luster  from  afar. 

Sweet  thoughts  and  beautiful  within  me  burn, 
And  Heaven  I  see  what  way  soe'er  I  turn  ; 
In  borrowed  radiance  of  her  soulful  glance 
All  things  grow  tenfold  lovely  and  entrance. 

I  touch  her  willing  hand — as  gentle  dove 
It  rests  within  my  own,  in  trusting  love  ; 
And  yet  it  moves  me  with  a  power  so  deep, 
My  heart  is  flame,  and  all  my  pulses  leap. 

I  breathe  her  name  unto  the  flowers  :  they  bloom 
With  rarer  hues,  and  shed  more  rich  perfume  ! 
The  skylark  hears  it,  as  he  floats  along, 
And  adds  new  sweetness  to  his  morning  song. 

Oh  magic  name  I  deep  graven  on  my  heart. 
And,  as  its  owner,  of  myself  a  part  ! 
It  hath  in  all  my  daily  thoughts  a  share, 
And  forms  the  burden  of  ray  nightly  prayer! 


Kf-i£ri?nu^^ 


a 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 
or  to  the 
NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
BIdg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 


ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renev^ed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date, 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


m  1 5  *99 


B  2  5  2001 


12,000(11/95) 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


C0Sfl31flflE7 


